


A Red Promise

by Brynneth



Series: A Red Promise [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynneth/pseuds/Brynneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Three Nights in Kirkwall.  Fenris has remained with Hawke and the mage revolutionaries, but he hasn't forgotten a certain ex-Crow he met in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Zevgirl for her wisdom in improving my stories!

The night was delightfully warm, filled with the scent of newly bloomed flowers and the essence of green that could only be associated with spring.  Trees that had been long bare stretched above Fenris's head with fresh leaves and unripened berries.  After a harsh winter spent in camps that moved from cave to cave, the freedom of being amid nature and unfettered by smothering furs was a welcome change.  He felt like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

 

He sat by a fire further back from the main camp, giving him some semblance of separateness.  By now, most of the revolutionaries knew enough to leave him in peace, preferring the company of more genial folk to his surly demeanor.  He had tried at first to overcome his natural reticence to mages, but no matter how friendly they were, none could shield him from their magic and the constant prickling of his skin provoked by their presence.  It wasn't their fault, and he knew this, but he shied away from close contact, unable to bear his markings' reactions.

 

Varric and Isabela often joined him for dinner, perhaps needing a break from the endless talk of tactics and strategy among the apostates.  Fenris never participated in these discussions.  His role was that of sword-arm, not of leadership; he left that to Hawke and Anders.  The other companions were more active, often giving advice whether or not it was wanted.  Fenris could not guess their motives for remaining with the mages.  Except for Merrill, none of them had a real reason for staying, except for their friendship with Hawke.  He suspected they were all so accustomed to following the driving force that was Marian, it had simply become a way of life.  Follow Hawke and all would be well, or at least, definitely interesting.

 

In the six months since they had fled Kirkwall, they had been constantly on the move, gathering fleeing apostates as they went.  Circles everywhere across Thedas were in disarray, some already destroyed in battles between mage and templar.  Apostates roamed the countryside, trying to stay one step ahead of their pursuers.  Many struggled to locate Hawke, to join the fight for their freedom.  This proved difficult, however, as Hawke and her growing band of revolutionaries kept their locations as secret as possible.  It surprised Fenris that she was able to do so successfully, but Hawke had the uncanny ability to inspire fervent loyalty, and the templars had failed to locate a betrayer.

 

Fenris knew why he was here.  The others assumed it was because Fenris felt obligated to Hawke for her help in defeating Danarius, but they were wrong.  Fenris had never truly felt at home anywhere, not even at the ramshackle, desiccated manor where he had resided in Kirkwall.  Even now, this camp in the middle of the forest was not home, nor had the caves of the Sundermount been during the wet winter.  But being with Hawke, Varric, Isabela, and even Merrill and Anders, was as close to feeling home as he could get.  Thus, he stayed.

 

He didn't want to admit to himself that he was waiting, even though it was present in so many of his actions:  the way he would prowl the outskirts of camp at night, his attention to each traveller they encountered, his sharpened gaze whenever Isabela would tell stories of Antiva.  He knew that to hope was to be disappointed, and he had certainly been disappointed enough.  Why exactly should three nights from many months ago matter so much?  And why did his dreams echo the soft, heavily-accented promise spoken by a devious assassin?  He cursed himself daily for his weakness, for his longing to feel more than the bitterness that was his constant companion.

 

He looked up as Isabela approached, carrying two plates of stew.  Handing him one, she plopped down beside him on the rough log on which he sat.

 

"I thought I would find you here."  She spooned a mouthful of stew into her mouth and grimaced.  "I never thought I would say this, but I actually miss fish."

 

Fenris shrugged and ate slowly, barely noticing the taste of venison mixed with vegetables.  He was accustomed to eating whatever he was given and wasn't bothered by the lack of variety they experienced.  He missed wine however, good quality wine, not the watered-down vintage they occasionally acquired on the run.

 

"Has Hawke announced our next mission?" he asked.  They had been at this location for a week while Hawke sent out scouts and gathered information.

 

"Nope.  Still waiting for the scouts to return.  If we don't move on soon, I'm going to die of boredom."  Isabela finished her meal and set the bowl on the ground.  "Sure you don't want to spend an evening in my tent, sweet thing?  I know I'm not Hawke, but I don't need magic to light your fire."  She gave Fenris her most charming smile.

 

Fenris gritted his teeth at the memory of his early flirtation with Hawke.  Varric had discovered it and made sure the rest of the crew knew it also.  Once Hawke had made her choice of Anders clear, Fenris had backed off, but the others still had their fun teasing him about it.  He was relieved none of them knew about the nights he had spent with the Antivan assassin.  Not that anything had happened... not really.

 

“I’m not interested, Isabela.”  Abruptly, he stood and leaving his empty bowl by the fire, moved off before she had time to twist her full lips into a pout.  There was no lack of men among the revolutionaries to choose from, but Isabela seemed bent on getting him into her bed.  He was growing weary of her sidelong glances from beneath dark, sweeping lashes and the way she sashayed her curvy hips whenever she had the opportunity to walk in front of him.  Fenris had nothing against women, but Isabela’s manipulative personality held no appeal for him.

 

He melted into the trees and began slowly circling the large camp, keeping to the periphery and checking for unwanted trespassers.  The mages had set various glyphs around the camp that would paralyze intruders, and Fenris knew the location of every one.  He was careful as he weaved through them, bare feet easily picking a path around rocks and twigs.  Hawke had often commented with amusement that Fenris could move so silently, it was as if he were really a ghost, even when his lyrium wasn’t activated.  Fenris refrained from telling her he often wondered if he _was_ a ghost.  Since Danarius’s death, he had often felt like one:  a silent shadow with no roots, no purpose, and no sense of self.  He had won his freedom, but what now?  He didn’t even know who he was beyond a magister’s ex-slave and Hawke’s friend.

 

He paused on a small ledge to look down on the main clearing of the camp, dominated by a large stump that served as a table.  Anders and Hawke leaned over the uneven surface of the wood, examining a crude map drawn roughly on a large piece of parchment.  A few other mages were standing with them, talking excitedly and gesturing at several areas of the map.  They were planning their next move, no doubt.  Hawke had announced a week ago that she was tired of running and ready to take the offensive.  She had not mentioned her goal, but Fenris suspected the scouts had been sent out to survey a Circle, although he had no idea which one.  Both Markham and Ansburg were within a few days travel, and both were home to Circles that had become prisons after the disaster in Kirkwall.

 

Distant shouts caught his attention, and he drew his Blade of Mercy as he swiftly descended to the clearing.  Just as he reached Hawke’s side, a cluster of five men emerged from the forest toting a sledge between them.  It had been roughly made, consisting of branches and hides tied together with twine.  A huddled figure lay lifelessly, covered by furs, which did little to hide the splashes of blood that stained the hide beneath the body.  As they approached the stump in the middle of the camp, the sharp scent of blood tickled Fenris’s nose.

 

“We found him alone in the forest a half-day’s walk from here,” explained Rolf, one of Hawke’s confidants and leaders.  His companions settled the sledge on the ground, and Anders knelt to pull aside the coverings.  “He had been set upon by a large pack of wolves.  They had almost done him in by the time we got there, but we killed the brutes and brought him back with us.”  He gave Hawke an apologetic grimace.  “I know we aren’t supposed to bring outsiders here, but none of us are healers, Hawke, and I couldn’t leave him to die.”

 

Marian patted his arm.  “It’s okay, Rolf.  You did the right thing.”  She bent over Anders’s shoulder at a surprised grunt from her lover.  “Anders?”

 

“Love, I think we know this man.  Or should I say _elf_?”

 

A strange tingle brought goose bumps to Fenris’s tanned skin that had nothing to do with his tattoos.  He brushed aside one of Rolf’s companions and knelt beside Anders, hands twitching as his heart began to pound.

 

The figure was barely recognizable beneath the crimson-soaked leather armor.  His blond hair lay in clumps caked with dried blood from which two pointed ears protruded, and a large, bruised bite dominated his neck.  Fresh blood oozed from the gaping wound, but as horrible as it was to see, it wasn’t what Fenris’s eyes sought.  Reaching out, he gently turned the elf’s chin to one side, exposing a cheek delicately adorned with three sinuous lines.

 

Anders slapped away Fenris hand impatiently.  “I have no idea what Zevran Arainai is doing here, but he’s not going to last long like this, Marian.  Can we get him to our tent?”

 

“Of course.”  Marian was already gesturing at Rolf, and the men took up the sledge once more and dragged it into Hawke’s tent.  A wave of dizziness washed over Fenris as he stood, and he was painfully aware of how fast his heart was racing.  _He’s here.  Did he come… for me?_   His feet moved without coherent thought, and he was at the tent entrance before he realized where he was going.  Before he could pull aside the flap, Hawke reappeared, one hand pressed firmly against Fenris’s chest.

 

“Uh, uh.  Anders and I need peace and quiet to do this, Fenris.  Thank you for making sure he wasn’t a danger to us, but I can assure you Zevran means us no harm.  Besides, he’s hardly in any condition to attack us even if he wanted to.”

 

Fenris blinked slowly, struggling to bring his shocked mind up to speed.  “But….”  _But what?  They don’t know about Zevran’s conversations with you, and they don’t know about his… promise._  

 

“Fenris?”  Hawke frowned, a familiar furrow crinkling the skin between her brows as she returned his confused gaze.

 

“Of course.”  He swallowed and turned sharply on a bare heel, not allowing himself to look back as he walked away.

 

The next few hours passed with grating slowness, and Fenris kept watch by the campfire, sitting on a log far across the clearing from Hawke’s tent.  He had tried to pass the time by sharpening his blade but gave up when he kept dropping the whetstone.  His fingers felt like they had lost all connection with his brain, and they twitched ceaselessly with little spasms that unnerved him more than the thoughts running through his head.  He hated himself for his weakness, for the images that flashed within the depths of his mind:  silky hair spilling over a slender shoulder, teeth glistening behind a wide, saucy grin, the slide of a finger against his wrist as a goblet is passed, warm lips pressed against his own.

 

“Pfft.”  He made an angry swipe with a steel-tipped hand as if to brush away annoying cobwebs and stood abruptly.  His soles slapped the dirt with uncharacteristic disquiet as he strode toward Hawke’s tent, back stiff with determination.  _Let them think what they will._

His hand grabbed the flap, but before he could open it, it was torn out of his grasp.  Startled, he backpedaled as Hawke emerged from the tent with dark circles under her eyes and shoulders drooping as if carrying a heavy weight.

 

“Hawke?”  He did not reach out to her.  Touching a mage, _any_ mage, was anathema to him.  He abhorred the hum of magic against his skin, the mingling of Fade with lyrium that left him feeling unclean, regardless of the intent of the mage.  It was not Hawke’s fault; it simply _was_.  It didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned.

 

“Sorry, Fenris.  Just exhausted.”  She managed a weak smile.  “But Zevran will live, and that’s the important thing.”

 

“He is… all right?”

 

“He will be.”  Hawke rubbed at the sweat on her forehead.  “It was a close one.  Thank the Maker for Anders.”  She glanced back at the tent for a moment with softened eyes.  Fenris’s lips thinned, but she didn’t notice, and he cleared his expression as she turned back to him.  “Zevran will be weak and feverish for a few days, but he should recover within a week.”

 

“You and Anders must be tired.  I will keep watch over him if you wish.”

 

Hawke blinked in surprise but couldn’t repress a sigh of relief.  “You know, that would actually be wonderful if you could.  I need rest, and I know Anders does too.  The scouts I sent out were the same party that brought Zevran back, but their report can wait until morning.  I’ll go make up another tent for Anders and me, and Zevran can use ours until he’s better.”  She started to stretch out a hand, a gesture of thanks, but stopped short as she remembered his preferences.  “Thank you for doing this.  If anything changes with Zevran’s condition, just let us know.”  She headed off to find an empty tent, and Fenris took a deep breath before ducking under the tent flap.

 

Anders was facing the bedroll at the back corner with his hands pressed against his lower back, and Fenris heard the pop of spine as the mage stretched.  Being in such close proximity to Anders made the back of his neck itch, the kind of itch that warned of imminent danger.  He could _sense_ the spirit within the man, feel it along the lines of lyrium embedded in his skin, and it was like tiny worms crawling through his veins.  Repressing a shudder with willpower built from years of associating with Anders, he grunted to announce his entrance.

 

Anders turned to face him, and in spite of his antipathy toward the mage, Fenris flinched with pity.  Anders’s face was chiseled with deep shadows that accentuated the paleness of his skin.  His lips were bleeding where he had bitten them in concentration, and his eyes were hollow with exhaustion.  Even the ridiculous feathers of his coat seemed to droop in imitation of the lanky locks of hair framing his lined face.

 

“Hawke asked me to keep watch over him while you go rest.”

 

Anders quirked one eyebrow.  “You want to stay with Zevran?”  He rubbed at the nape of his neck tiredly, working blunt fingers into the stiff tendons there.  “Well, it certainly won’t hurt anything, and Marian and I could use some sleep.”  He met Fenris’s eyes almost tentatively.  “Uh… thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome.”  Fenris stepped to one side, carefully avoiding even a brush with Anders’s robes as the mage made his way out.

 

“If you need us, just wake us up.”  Anders glanced sidelong at Fenris from beneath lowered lids as he glided out, but thankfully said no more than that.  The two of them had maintained an uneasy truce since Kirkwall, but Fenris never made any attempt to hide his dislike of Anders, and the mage had stopped trying to rectify the strained relationship _.  It is better this way.  No pretense of friendship where none exists_.

 

There was a second bedroll lying next to the one Zevran lay upon, and Fenris seated himself cross-legged next to the injured assassin.  Finally alone in the tent, he allowed his eyes to examine Zevran’s condition for himself.

 

They had removed his armor and undershirt and cleaned the blood from his skin and hair as much as possible.  It was the first time Fenris had seen Zevran shirtless, and his gaze roamed over the muscled torso with interest.  More dark tattoos outlined the curve of a pectoral and swirled gracefully over the taut abdomen to disappear beneath the loose trousers.  Zevran’s skin was smooth and golden from his years in Antiva, where Fenris knew the sun blazed hot year-round.  There were several old scars:  one half-hidden by the tattoo below his breast and another at his side below the last rib.  A new, jagged claw mark swelled above his navel, but it was clean and uninfected.

 

The cheek that lacked a tattoo had a nasty bruise spread across the bronze skin, but his face was otherwise unmarred and just as beautiful as Fenris remembered.  The word, _beautiful_ , skittered around his brain, and he tried to squelch the thought before finally giving up.  Zevran _was_ beautiful, in the timeless manner of all elves, and his hair was even longer than Fenris remembered, although still stained with blood.  It was a different shade of red that caught his attention, however, to the point where he sucked in his breath in shock.

 

For in that moment, Zevran stirred, drawing one arm from beneath the fur that covered his lower half.  As his hand sprawled out to the side, Fenris’s gaze was drawn to a string that wound three times around Zevran’s slender wrist and was tied off with a careful knot.  It was bright red, as red as the string that had wrapped the box of chocolate Zevran had offered to Fenris long ago, the same string Fenris had left behind in Kirkwall as token and message both.

 

The claws of his gauntlet creaked as he reached out one finger to caress the string and wonder at its presence.  As he stretched out beside Zevran on the other bedroll, he kept his hand near the assassin’s, not touching, simply _there_ … close.  As the flames died and the light faded to glowing embers, he remained awake, thinking of a rainy night and the taste of chocolate on his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

At the age of fourteen, Zevran underwent what the Crows call _Los Ensayos de Resistencia_.  Every apprentice endured this stage of their training; some survived intact, and some were carried away as broken shells.  For the Guild, it was the final culling, the test that separated the wheat from the chaff.  If he persevered, the apprentice would receive a Master and begin his journey into whatever specialization had been deemed suited to him.  Very few apprentices reached this point before the age of seventeen, but the Masters had decided Zevran was a promising asset.  Perhaps they had also hoped to break the defiant, brazen spirit that had inspired layer upon layer of stripes on Zevran’s tanned back.

 

During _Los Ensayos_ , Zevran came to know pain as an entity with many faces and many touches.  It could slice like a dagger, burn with a fierce flame, crush with relentless pressure, or puncture the skin like a myriad of needles.  He refused to embrace it as some advised, secretly terrified that it would consume his soul if allowed.  Instead, Zevran taught himself to separate it from his consciousness and face it as an enemy.  When it attempted to strike him down, he would bare his teeth and laugh it into submission.  When his tormentors pushed, he merely asked for more and screamed his defiance.  By the end, he bore the scars but not the humility.  Now, many years later, the most vile of those Masters who had unleashed agony upon him were dead, their last memory a savage grin of triumph and a flash of honey eyes.

 

The pain he felt now on waking was more of an echo:  an ache in tendon, a sting in tissue, and a burn in his abdomen.  He recognized the faint, warm tingle of the magic used to knit his wounds far sooner than nature would have dictated.  With his eyes closed, he could still see the gaping jaws of the lead wolf and hear the howl of victory as he fell beneath the onslaught of the enraged pack.  _Not entirely a victory though, hmm?  I took quite a few of your fellows down with me_.  Still, he had grown lax to have stumbled across so many predators without noticing the signs.  _My Masters would have taken such enjoyment to hear of Zevran Arainai succumbing to mere wolves_.

 

He cracked his eyelids to see a rough canvas stretched above, firelight tossing shadows back and forth among the creases.  _A tent then_.  He shifted just a smidgeon, enough to assess his strength and determine if any bones were fractured.  _No breaks, but_ _I am too weak to defend myself if need be_.  Remembering the feel of tearing teeth on his neck, he determined he had probably lost a significant amount of blood.  A sliver of disquiet disturbed his thoughts; weakness meant vulnerability, a state he could not afford.  His uneasiness increased when he heard a rustle of movement nearby.

 

“Drink.”

 

 _That voice_.  In spite of his frailty, perhaps even more so _because_ of it, a shiver ran down his spine.  There was another wolf here, one he had hunted for some time, but it seemed the prey had found the hunter first.  And he could not deny that the thought of _this_ wolf’s teeth on his exposed throat… well, it sent a thrill through him that had little to do with fear.  In the next moment, a shadowy figure bent over him, head haloed in silver as firelight glinted off white strands of hair.  Slim arms slid around his shoulders and hefted him into a more upright position as easily as if he were a sack of salt.  Cold iron touched his dry lips, and he obeyed, wincing at the bitter taste of elfroot.  He coughed, and the tankard was removed and his body gently lowered as if he were a child.

 

A chair scraped nearby and was drawn close to his cot.  His neck ached to move, but Zevran turned it anyway to better see Fenris as the warrior sat with a grunt.  _Those eyes_.  Once, when he was still a fledgling assassin and awed by riches, he had been assigned to an Antivan prince, acting as his servant.  The prince had a forgettable face, bland and set in a practiced grimace of boredom, but the jewel he wore about his neck caught even the most casual glance.  The emerald had been cut in the shape of a teardrop and hung from a chain of gold.  The color was the brilliance of green grass in spring, and it sparkled like the North Star on a clear winter night.  He had never seen the like of that jewel until now, but the two orbs staring back him were filled with a life the emerald of his past had never known.

 

"You are as elusive as a halla in flight, _mi querido_."  It hurt to talk.  The tendons in his throat burned as they worked around the words, and it took a great deal of effort to remain focused.  He could already feel his body slipping back into a healing sleep.

 

" _Hawke_ is in flight.  I merely follow."  Fenris stretched out a finger to lightly touch the red string around Zevran's wrist.  "You found the bottle I left."

 

"I keep my promises, whether they be for good or ill."  He raised a shaky hand toward the string, but Fenris had already withdrawn his finger.  _Still skittish but here_.  Zevran allowed his eyes to drift closed with a slight curve of his lips.   _Perhaps he is as intrigued with me as I am with him?_ He could only hope.

 

"Rest now.  I will remain here."

 

The words meant more than they would to most people.  For an assassin, to be indisposed in a camp of strangers meant unacceptable vulnerability.  Fenris's presence would provide the peace Zevran needed to sleep.  He wished to express his gratitude, but exhaustion claimed him, pulling him deep into soothing darkness.

 

###

 

He dreamed.  Cool air carried the taste of salt to his lips even as it dried the sweat on his naked skin.  He stood upon a marble balcony that gleamed brightly in the midday sun, and twining vines of trumpet lilies permeated the humidity with their cloying scent.  Uncaring of his nudity, he turned back the bedroom behind him, recognizing the lush opulence of a high-born lady's boudoir.  He remembered this estate.  Only two years ago, he had completed an expensive contract, which ended in the death of the unfortunate lady's husband.  Undaunted, she had simply replaced her late sire’s place in bed with Zevran. 

 

He left the heat of Antiva's summer and entered the shaded interior of the bedroom.  His lady lay propped on one elbow watching him, her dusky skin contrasting sharply with the white sheets.

 

" _Mi amor_ , why do you linger under the hot sun when you could be relaxing in here with me?"  Her lips curled into a sultry smile, and she patted the bed beside her with a hand adorned with gold bracelets.

 

Just as he had those years ago, his dream-self paused to take in her beauty, but even as his eyes appreciated, his heart rebelled.  Was this all there was for Zevran Arainai?  A beautiful body to occupy his time and fulfill his needs until they grew tired of one another?  And then to move on to the next seduction, another set of lips to taste?  He turned back to the balcony and closed his eyes in sorrow.

 

When he reopened them and turned around, he was no longer in a lavish manor but in the tiny loft above the harbor that he called home.  Before him lay his own bedroom, spartan and rarely used, but his bed was far from empty.  Reclining against the iron headboard was a tall elf clad in black leather that only accentuated the white of his shaggy hair.  His legs were crossed at the ankle, and his eyes burned with a heat that traveled straight to Zevran's groin.

 

"You are late."

 

"Then I owe you restitution, yes?"  This was a dream, and perhaps that explained the lack of surprise at finding Fenris in his bed.  Even so, a vision from beyond the Veil failed to justify the gladness and the sheer sense of rightness at seeing the elf in his home.

 

When Fenris rose from the bed in a single fluid movement, Zevran went limp and allowed himself to be pressed roughly against the wall, delighting in the mouth that claimed his with a passion far surpassing anything experienced within the frigid beds of Antiva's villas.  He moaned, but the soft heat beneath his lips faded to the nothingness of air.  Zevran reached out a desperate hand in an effort to hold on to Fenris, but the warrior's lithe body dissipated into the mist, leaving Zevran cold and empty.

 

###

 

When he awoke, it wasn't Fenris sitting at his side.  Straw-colored, braided hair framed high cheekbones and a strong, blunt jaw.  The blue eyes were underscored with muted bruises displaying the lack of sleep, but they were as mesmerizing in their shrewdness as they had been when he had first seen them in Sundermount’s cave.

 

“Serah Hawke.”  He winced at the unfamiliar rasp that accompanied his words instead of his usual fluid tenor.

 

“Zevran.”  She sighed and drew a damp cloth across his sweaty brow.  “Do you always make such dramatic entrances?”

 

“I _do_ like to make an impression, but usually it involves less blood and pain.”

 

“You’re lucky you’re even alive.  If the wolves hadn’t already incapacitated you, my men might have killed you instead to protect our location.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “Why are you here, Zevran?”

 

“Just happened to be in the area, my dear lady.”  He offered his most charming smile, even though he knew she wouldn’t be swayed by anything he had to give.

 

“A rather isolated area to wander through, don’t you think?”  She crossed her arms across her chest, an unnecessary gesture from an already formidable woman.  “The truth, Zevran.  I value your friendship, but my people come first.”

 

 _The truth is not mine to give._   “My lady, I have nothing to offer except my word, but I am not here to harm your cause or to bring information to your pursuers.  I cannot give you the truth just yet, but I swear to you on the love I once bore for my Warden, I will not betray your people.  Perhaps I may even be of help?”

 

She cocked her head and regarded him thoughtfully.  “You wish to join us?”

 

“For a time.  If you wish me to leave, however, I will do so.”

 

A burst of sunshine interrupted their conversation, and a tall, lanky mage entered the tent, carrying a covered iron pot.  Muttering under his breath, he tied the entrance flap of the tent back with a leather thong, letting in a fresh breeze that smelled of green.  Zevran breathed deeply, grateful for the relief from smoke and stale body odor.

 

“Good.  Is he finally awake?”  The other mage stooped over Zevran and placed a broad hand over his chest.  A brief, blue glow emanated from between slender fingers as he made his own assessment.

 

“He wants to join us, Anders,” said Hawke.  “You know more about him than I do.  Can he be trusted?”

 

“I only know what the Warden Commander told me, and she trusted him with her life, so I suppose he has some sense of honor.  For an assassin.”  He pulled his hand away from Zevran and laid his palm over the elf’s forehead.  “How do you feel?”

 

“Weak as a babe and hungry as a Warden.  Thank you for your… kind words.”  Zevran grinned, not in the least offended.

 

Anders chuckled.  “No problem.  You’re going to need to rest here for a few days.  You lost a lot of blood, and I can’t heal that.”

 

“I owe you both a debt of gratitude for rescuing me, and I promise to cause you no trouble.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” said Hawke.  “Just know that I’ll be keeping an eye on you until I discover the _real_ reason you’re here.”  She left without a backward glance.

 

“A charming woman.”  Zevran raised his eyebrows at the billow of her retreating robes.

 

“She’s got a lot on her shoulders right now,” said Anders, uncovering the pot he had brought with him.  “Are you able to sit up and eat?”

 

Zevran pushed himself upright, grimacing at the lingering pain in his abdominal muscles and neck.  “I _am_ truly grateful for your assistance, _mi amigo_ ,” he said softly.

 

“I know, Zevran.”  Anders poured the thick, meaty broth into a bowl and handed it to the elf.  “You won’t tell us why you’re here?”

 

“I cannot.  It would betray another’s trust.”

 

“Very well, but while you’re here, you cooperate with our orders.  Which means you stay in bed until I tell you it is okay to get up.”

 

“May I at least get a bath?”  Zevran made a disgusted face while waving a hand over his body.  “I have always had a preference for cleanliness, and not even fresh air can wash away the odor of the sick.”

 

“I’ll ask Fenris to help you.  Marian had to force him to leave you and get some sleep, you know.  Broody bastard wouldn’t leave your side.”

 

“Indeed?”  Zevran hid his delight behind a spoonful of soup.

 

“He probably doesn’t trust you.”  Anders stood and pressed his hands to his lower back, stretching to relieve the stiffness.  “Don’t worry about it.  He’s always like that.  He’ll relax more after you’ve been here awhile.”  He bent and picked up the pot from the ground.  “I’ll be back later with some elfroot potion for you to drink.  Eat that soup and get some rest.”  He left, his shadow briefly obliterating the warm sunlight as he stooped beneath the flap.

 

Zevran finished the soup and set the empty bowl beside his bed.  Exhaustion was already pulling him back toward slumber, and he welcomed it with the knowledge that he was safe enough to rest easily without fear of attack.  His last thought was of Fenris, refusing to leave the tent, and he smiled as the Fade drew him into its hazy world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Zevgirl for keeping my semicolons and commas in line. I hope you all are enjoying this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to my lovely beta, Zevgirl! I hope you're all enjoying the story :)

“So, Blondie… does the _Guide to Revolutions_ say rebel leaders must go without sleep and food?”

 

Anders looked up from the rock on which he was sitting, rubbing the sore tendons in the back of his neck.  Varric plopped on a stump nearby and withdrew a pouch from his belt.  Quirking an eyebrow at Anders, he tossed him an apple and then produced another for himself.  Anders gave him a rueful grin and took a bite from the fruit, closing his eyes in delight at the tart, refreshing taste.

 

“No, but if they warned people about the dubious perks that come with being a revolutionary, there would never be any change in the world.  You won’t exactly find a line of do-gooders waiting to live in dirty camps while fleeing a sizable bounty on their heads.”

 

Varric polished his apple on a tattered corner of his jacket.  “I haven’t heard what the bounty is on you and Hawke lately.  Wasn't it fifty sovereigns?”

 

“Seventy-five,” replied Anders, licking juice from his fingertips.  “Jealous that yours isn’t as much?”

 

“Nah.  I’m just a bystander recording history as it unfolds right before my eyes.  Someday, I’m going to earn a fortune writing about your revolution.”  Varric saluted Anders with his apple and took a voracious bite.  “I’ll call it _The Champion and Her Mage: A Love Story of Two Apostates_.”

 

“Better call it _The_ _Abomination and His Flock_.”  Anders tensed at the new voice coming from behind him.  He was used to the wry disdain that corrupted Fenris’s pleasing bass, but the sound of it still made his fingers itch to place a silence spell on the antagonistic elf.

 

“I guess that makes you one of my sheep,” he replied, refusing to give Fenris the satisfaction of turning around.

 

“Hmmph.” 

 

Anders scrutinized the apple in his hand as tightly-clad legs and tanned bare feet came to stand between Varric and himself.  _Why does he always have to wear those damn clingy leggings?  It’s not like they offer much protection.   Just a very… delectable… view._   Anders quickly sank his teeth into the fruit before his mind could wander into dangerous territory.

 

“The assassin… is he healing well?”

 

 _Huh?_   He covered his surprise with a cough and peered up at Fenris.  The elf was brushing at his armor as if it had suddenly acquired a blanket of dust.  _Now why is he so interested?_  “He is doing much better, but he’s still too weak to be up and about.  In fact, since you’re so bent on watching over him, I was hoping you would help him get a bath.  He’s quite particular about cleanliness, apparently.”  Anders squinted, trying to assess Fenris’s expression, but he might as well have been examining a statue.  Fenris was irritatingly difficult to read.  “I assume you still want to keep an eye on Zevran?”

 

“Yes.”  Fenris finished slapping at imaginary dirt and rolled his shoulders until they popped.  “I will go assist him then.”

 

He stalked off toward the supply tent with the same deliberate, measured steps he used in approaching everything.  _Always careful and calculating every move.  But he probably had to when he was a slave._

“Well now, that was rather astonishing,” said Varric, staring at Fenris’s rigid back.  “Since when is Broody so eager to be a watchdog?”

 

“No idea, but Zevran will have him fleeing soon enough.  I can’t see Fenris tolerating Zevran’s notorious flirtations.  We may go in there later to find the poor assassin dead and missing a heart.”

 

“And the story grows more interesting by the minute,” said Varric.  He winked at Anders and bit into his apple with a happy sigh.

 

###

 

Zevran was still asleep when Fenris entered the tent, carrying a large metal tub that dwarfed his thin stature.  He tried to be silent, but the assassin heard the minute thump of the tub settling into the dirt and turned his head toward Fenris far too quickly for his recently torn throat.  Zevran closed his eyes as he swallowed a hiss of pain, and when he reopened them, Fenris was standing over him with a furrowed brow.

 

"I did not mean to startle you.  I was told you required assistance to bathe?"

 

"No need for apology, _mi querido_."  Zevran touched his neck with a hesitant forefinger, searching for a scar that wasn’t present.  "It has been long since I have been able to sleep without heed to my safety, and I tend to jump at the least bit of noise."  His eyes brightened at the sight of the tub.  "I do so despise the feeling of grit, dried blood, and old sweat.  Thank you for bringing this to me."

 

"There is water boiling over the fire.  I thought you might prefer yours to be warm."

 

"You are most kind, and yes, a hot bath would be most welcome.  As is your presence.”

 

Fenris turned back to the tub, but not before Zevran caught the subtle flush across high cheekbones.  It was a mark of Fenris’s past, his capability of hiding his emotions so thoroughly, but Zevran was adept at reading body language.  Fenris was probably unaware of just how much he communicated through even the smallest movement:  the clench of a fist, the hunch of his shoulders, the set in his jaw, the miniscule quirk at the corner of his mouth.  It was a challenge to decipher, but Zevran had never walked away from a challenge.

 

Fenris retrieved an iron pail from inside the tub and began the arduous task of bringing in hot water from the fire outside.  It took some time, and Zevran fell back into a half-doze, watching the other elf through shuttered eyes that took in every play of muscle as Fenris tirelessly poured the water into the tub.  _So strong for someone so slim in stature.  Does the lyrium enhance his strength?_ There was so much he wished to discover about this exotic elf, but patience would be his guide.  Fenris had been broken once, and deep wounds did not heal cleanly.

 

When Zevran tried to rise on his own, he realized the full extent of his weakness.  By the time he had pulled himself upright on the edge of the bed, his arms were quivering from the effort, and the room was spinning slowly from the sudden movement.  He wasn’t even aware that he was swaying until he felt a sturdy hand on his shoulder.

 

“Do not move until you get your bearings.”

 

Zevran nodded and leaned into the strength behind Fenris’s grip.  An irrational laugh bubbled within his chest, but he pushed it back down firmly.  Here he was, musing over Fenris’s secrets while his own were blatantly on display.  There was little that caused Zevran shame, and even less that he feared, but frailty was foremost of these.  To be weak was to be vulnerable, and vulnerability meant failure and certain death in his world.  He never allowed others to see him as anything but strong, yet here he had no choice.

 

“I am afraid, _mi querido_ , that I cannot hope to reach the bath on my own.  I do not wish to impose on you, but would you be able to assist me?”

 

Immediately, a strong arm circled his waist and pulled him gently to his feet.  Zevran wobbled and leaned into Fenris, distracting himself from lost pride by focusing on the feel of Fenris's hand gripping his hip.  _Strong... so strong_.  They moved in tandem toward the tub where Zevran paused, suddenly uncertain how to proceed.

 

"I must remove my pants and smallclothes, my friend.  It matters little to me, but I do not wish to offend you."  He risked a glance up, meeting Fenris's gaze to convey his honesty.  Fenris hesitated only briefly and then nodded.

 

"You will not offend me.  Lean against me and take them off."

 

It took mere seconds to loosen the laces and drop the trousers.  He had lost weight over the past few days, and he could feel it in easy slip of fabric over his slim hips.  After stepping out of his smallclothes, he moved carefully into the tub and lowered himself into the steaming water with Fenris's support.  The other elf was averting his gaze as much as possible, but the amount of effort it took amused Zevran.  _He is taking great pains to hide his attraction.  Now why is that?_

Hot baths were rare outside of cities, and Zevran slouched into the water with a pleased smile.  " _Mi querido_ , you have given me the best gift possible.  I am eternally grateful for your thoughtfulness."

 

Fenris was still standing by the tub, shifting his weight from foot to foot.  "What does _mi querido_ mean?"

 

Zevran smiled then and closed his eyes in careful thought.  _No lies_.  "In my country, it is a term of endearment.  Much the same as 'my darling'."  Zevran opened his eyes to meet Fenris's surprised stare.  "You are already a friend, but when you are ready, I would like to take our friendship further.  I was hoping, from our time in Kirkwall, that perhaps you felt the same?"  He doubted his intentions were in any way a secret given that he had followed Fenris here, but he needed to know if Fenris wished to continue the fragile path they had set upon.  Sometimes directness was necessary, and in Fenris’s case, it was probably preferred.

 

Fenris crouched and sat cross-legged next to the tub on an eye-level with Zevran.  Tentatively, he reached out and stroked the red string around Zevran’s wrist in a lingering caress.

 

“I was not… certain you would come.”

 

“I could not forget your kiss, _mi querido_.  Or your company.”

 

Fenris bowed his head and ran his fingers harshly through his hair.  “I do not know how to do this.  My only thoughts have been to seek my freedom.  My only skill is to fight.  I would not have any idea how to proceed in… _this_ … with you.”  He let out a huff of frustration.  “I do not even have the words.”

 

“Words are welcome but unnecessary.  I ask for nothing except what you wish to give, and I will give nothing you do not wish to receive.  I will not ask for trust for I have not earned it.  If you do not return my interest, then I will go and leave you in peace.”

 

Green eyes flew swiftly to Zevran’s face.  “I do not want you to go.”

 

“Then I shall stay awhile, and we shall get to know each other better, yes?”

 

 

Zevran closed his eyes and drifted into a light doze, letting the warmth of the water draw the ache from his muscles.  As much as he despised his frailty, it did give him the opportunity to spend time with Fenris.  His attraction to the other elf had grown beyond mere physical yearning, although he assuredly longed to undress the delicious warrior and smooth his hands over fevered, responsive skin.  It was Fenris’s strength of mind that drew him, however, the defiance against what his master had attempted to mold.

 

“Do you require my help to bathe?”  Fenris had returned to the tub and was holding out a bar of lye and a clean rag.

 

“I believe I can manage,” Zevran replied.  He lathered the cloth generously and began to wash the dried blood and sweat from his skin.  Fenris disappeared behind, and at first, Zevran thought he had left, but then strong, blunt fingers were moving into his hair.  Zevran could smell a pleasant herbal scent from the shampoo Fenris was using.

 

“You are full of surprises, my friend.  Scented shampoo in a camp?”

 

“I found it among Hawke’s supplies in the corner.  This was her tent, but she’s given it to you for now.”

 

“I shall have to thank her for giving up her home for me.”  Zevran hummed appreciatively as Fenris massaged his scalp with deep, circular strokes.  When finished, he leaned his head back dutifully as Fenris poured warm water through Zevran’s long, blond locks, leaving them shining like amber.  Fenris removed the soap and rag, leaving Zevran to lean his head on the rim of the tub while sinking blissfully back into the warmth.  A few moments later, he was back with a comb and began patiently working the teeth through the tangles of Zevran’s hair.

 

“I was not aware you had a domestic side,” Zevran murmured softly.

 

“I was sometimes ordered to attend to my master’s apprentice.  She often bade me to bathe and comb her hair when she was in the mood for… company.”  Zevran heard an angry grinding of teeth.  “She had maidservants, but she liked to remind me that I could be used for personal service as well as acting as bodyguard.”

 

“I apologize for stirring up bad memories, _mi querido_.”

 

“Many of my memories, what are left of them, are bad.  I will make new ones.”  Fenris set aside the comb and ran his fingers lightly through the wet strands of Zevran’s hair.  “I do not mind doing your hair.”

 

Zevran twisted his neck, hoping to catch Fenris’s gaze, but the other elf was already standing and walking over to the bedrolls to retrieve a towel.  He returned to the bath and offered Zevran his hand.

 

“Are you finished?”

 

“ _Sì_.”  Zevran pulled himself upright with Fenris’s aid and took the towel, watching Fenris out of the corner of his eyes as he dried off.  Fenris stood close for Zevran to hold on to for support but kept his eyes politely averted.  His body spoke a different story, and Zevran noted the subtle signs he had hoped to see:  the faint blush warming Fenris’s face, the restless twitch in his fingers, the slight widening of Fenris’s stance that provided more room between his long legs.  Despite his condition, it took a great deal of effort for Zevran to keep his distance.  Every nerve in his skin was screaming for contact, for the delicious warmth of another body pressed against his own.

 

Fenris had laid out clean clothes on the fresh bedroll, and Zevran pulled them on slowly, relishing the softness of the linen against his skin.  One did occasionally grow weary of leather; even the most supple armor eventually chafed the skin.

 

“I hope they are not too long,” said Fenris.  “They are some extra clothes I brought with me.”

 

“They will serve quite well,” replied Zevran with a smile.  He didn’t mind being shorter than Fenris, and he actually tended to gravitate toward taller men.

 

Fenris sat on the other bedroll next to Zevran and handed him a bowl of stew.  The assassin hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until the aroma of meat and vegetables hit his nose.  They ate together in companionable silence, and by the time he had finished, sleep was once again calling.  Fenris set aside their bowls and reached for a flask containing familiar red-tinged liquid.

 

“The mage wished you to drink more potion to restore your strength.”

 

Zevran grimaced but obediently downed the container in one gulp.  “Ah, the pungent taste of elfroot.  Not the taste I prefer to have linger on my tongue when I slip into the Fade, but it will do for now.”  He lifted a suggestive eyebrow at his companion and was pleased when Fenris's lips quirked with amusement.  _Progress!_

Exhaustion settled over him like a cloak, but he felt much better with clean skin and a full stomach.  He laid back in the bedroll and drifted for a short time, watching Fenris clean up from the bath and dinner.  Before Fenris had begun to strip for bed, the Fade had claimed Zevran, stealing away his intent to see the warrior unclothed.

 

 

Sleep eluded Fenris, kept at bay by a storm of thoughts.  He lay on his side watching Zevran sleep, the easy rise and fall of the assassin’s chest.  The tunic he wore was too large and the neckline fell off one shoulder, baring smooth, sun-kissed skin with just the tip of a curled tattoo visible above the cloth.  He had seen much more of that tattoo earlier when Zevran was bathing, along with a great deal else.

 

He wasn’t sure how to feel about being attracted to a man.  Danarius and Hadriana had used him when they wished, and he had despised both.  Even when they had forced him to orgasm, he had taken no joy in those encounters, only shame and disgust.  He had no memories of sex before them, so he was unaware of what his previous preference might have been.  Zevran was the first person other than Hawke to capture his interest, and he couldn’t deny that his attraction for Zevran was strong.

 

His eyes dropped to the string Zevran still wore upon his wrist.  _He came back for me._ Was he ready for what that meant?  Carefully, he scooted over until he was curled around Zevran and reached out one arm tentatively to rest it over the assassin’s waist.  Zevran stirred, shifting sleepily toward Fenris’s warmth before sinking back into sleep.  As the moon began its downward path to the horizon, Fenris finally slid into dreams, burying his head and his confusion into the muscled, bare shoulder beside him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Not bad for a beginner, my friend."  Zevran reached out a hand to help Rolf stand.

 

"You're just being nice, but I'll take it."  Rolf grimaced as he rose from the dirt, rubbing his hip.  "Even though you just recovered from near-death, you're ten times better than I'll ever be."

 

Zevran chuckled.  It had been two days since Anders released him from bed rest, and he could feel his strength returning.  He rolled his shoulders back, relishing the feel of the sun on his bare skin.  "I have years of training, my good Mage, whereas you are just starting to learn.  We all begin somewhere." _And I had not the choice you have now._

 

A fleeting memory surfaced from the depths of his subconscious:  a sad-faced woman with a painted face taking his hand and leading him outside the only home he could remember.  An anxious whisper− _be good, my little one−_ and a burly, scowling hulk of a man who dragged him away before tears could fall.  He pushed the memory back down before more could appear and fill him with the bitterness he held always at bay.

 

"Thank you for the practice, assassin," said Rolf.  "Again tomorrow?"

 

"Of course." Zevran watched him walk away before allowing his gaze to flick toward the dappled shade of pine trees where Fenris stood watching.  The afternoon sun had quickly heated his skin, and he had removed his shirt to spar with Rolf.  Conscious of the intensity of Fenris's gaze, he stretched the muscles in his arms and chest, well aware of the way his tattoos accented the build of his torso.  _I never said I had to play fair._

 

"Come, _mi amigo_!" he called.  "Would you care to accept a challenge?"

 

The corner of Fenris's mouth quirked, and he strode calmly to where Zevran awaited him with a saucy grin.  Zevran had spent three days on bed rest, and Fenris had remained with him for most of that time.  Stilted at first, conversation began to flow as Fenris relaxed and dropped the carefully constructed mask he wore everywhere as protection.  They exchanged stories of their past, avoiding the pitfalls of previous abuse, and laughed over glasses of watered-down wine, which was all the camp had available.  When Hawke reclaimed her tent, Fenris tentatively offered to share his with the assassin, much to the astonishment of Fenris's friends.  Each night since had been delightfully spent within the confines of one bedroll, and although Zevran longed for far more, he was pleased to find shelter from the cold air of the night within Fenris's arms.  The only difficulty was waking in the bright morning to find himself with a stiff cock that welcomed the dawn with a little too much vigor.

 

 _It is time to take this further, my timid warrior.  Let us see a little of that passion you hide within, hmm?_ Zevran grinned as Fenris drew his Blade of Mercy, lifting a dark eyebrow as he did so.

 

"I am not Rolf."  Fenris ran the palm of his hand lovingly over the flat of his greatsword.  "Are you certain you wish to spar with me?"

 

"Ah!  A challenge if I ever heard one!"  Zevran reached for the twin daggers tucked into his pants.  "My friend, I would be honored to test myself upon your prowess." He gestured at the armor top Fenris wore.  "Perhaps you would care to level the field?"

 

Fenris narrowed his eyes at the other elf, but Zevran merely cocked his head in feigned innocence.  Shrugging indifferently, Fenris removed the spiky leather top and took a defensive stance.  Zevran took a moment to appreciate the beautiful white tattoos that lined Fenris's chest and arms, weaving sinuously along muscles just as Zevran's did.  His fingers itched to trace each and every one until he coaxed a rumbling moan from the warrior who faced him.  _Soon,_ mi querido _, you shall learn that pleasure does not always come with shame or pain_.

 

With that thought, he allowed his mind to enter a state of instinct and readiness, a technique he had honed for years.  Anything other than his opponent was blocked out, and Zevran rushed the warrior with a flurry of blades that sent Fenris reeling backwards, but Fenris recovered quickly, turning his side to his attacker and blocking the oncoming blows effortlessly.  His moves were ponderous but calculated and precise, and he swung the greatsword with easy arcs.  Zevran dodged and circled around the taller elf, trying to keep Fenris off-balance, but the warrior's bare feet gripped the ground firmly.

 

They slipped into a dance, coming together to match blades, and then twirling away in a series of intricate steps.  Easy breaths became pants and smooth skin glistened with sweat.  Zevran would have no idea later how long they fought, but he couldn't deny the relief he felt when Fenris finally lost his footing due to well-placed boot behind his ankle.  The two elves tumbled to the dirt, chest to chest, eye to eye.

 

The match was forgotten, lost to the feel of slick skin and the rapid pulse of the heart.  Zevran shifted just so, sliding his hips against Fenris's groin.  Fenris's breath slipped its rhythm, and he closed his eyes to escape the intensity of Zevran's gaze.  His body reacted, betraying his thoughts with a slight thrust of his hips as he unconsciously sought more contact.  Time slowed as each became acutely aware of the other's desire, and Zevran dropped his forehead to Fenris's chest as he struggled to maintain control.  With only a sliver of willpower left, he rolled off Fenris and pushed himself to a standing position.  Fenris opened his eyes and was about to speak when another voice intruded and broke the moment into fragments of loss.

 

"I hope this is a friendly fight and not an argument." Marian Hawke stepped from the shadow of the trees and approached them with a swish of robes.  "What are you two doing?"

 

Zevran hid his irritation of the interruption behind a lazy smile.  "Ah, my Lady Hawke.  Fenris has been kind enough to give me some much-needed exercise.  I fear that my skills have languished from so much idleness in bed."

 

"From the looks of it, your skills are still as deadly as before." She watched as Zevran extended a hand to Fenris and helped him to his feet.  "Fenris, I don't mean to be rude, but I need to speak with Zevran alone, please."

 

"Very well." Fenris inclined his head to Zevran.  "Thank you for the match.  I shall see you at dinner." He retrieved his armor top and headed off toward camp.  Zevran's eyes lingered on the tight curves above Fenris's thighs, and he had to remind himself to look away with Hawke watching.

 

He knew as soon as he met her gaze she hadn't been fooled.

 

"Okay, Zevran.  What exactly are your intentions toward Fenris?" Hard eyes bored into his.

 

Zevran sighed and seated himself on a nearby log, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.  "Has it become so obvious?"

 

"I don't think anyone else has noticed, but it won't be long before they do.  You know how especially discerning Isabela can be." Marian gathered her robes up and sat down beside him.  "You're good at deception, Zevran, but it's easy to see the difference in Fenris."

 

"Oh?"

 

Hawke rolled her eyes.  "Look.  You haven't known Fenris as long as some of us, but I can tell you he's changed since you came.  Fenris is, at best, aloof and with good reason.  He senses the Fade in mages... feels it in the lyrium embedded in his skin.  I can't even imagine how uncomfortable it must be for him to be around us every day.  It makes him prickly, and quite frankly, grouchy as a starved bear.  Since you've come, however, he's more... relaxed."

 

"If I have in any way helped him, then I am pleased to have been of service."

 

"Oh, knock it off, Zevran." She glared at him.  "He watches you, seeks you out, and Fenris _never_ seeks anyone out.  And he's sharing his tent with you."

 

"For which I am eternally obliged." He threw up his hands in a gesture of peace when Hawke narrowed her eyes.  "I am not committing any unspeakable acts.  This I swear, my Lady."

 

"And the fact that you're here has nothing to do with Fenris?"

 

Zevran sighed.  "I cannot answer that without betraying his trust.  I do not think he wishes anyone to know of our friendship."

 

"I don't either, which is why I haven't approached him." Hawke scuffed at the dirt with the toe of her worn boot.  "Look, I'm just watching out for my friend's welfare.  Fenris didn't have to come with us, but he did, and I owe him a great deal.  I don't want to see him hurt."

 

"Nor do I, Lady.  My intentions are good ones, and I will never push him beyond what he wishes." There was no false smile on Zevran's face when he said this, and Hawke, who had seen the sorrow in Anders's eyes when he lied to her, could see the sincerity in Zevran's.

 

"Very well.  That's all I wanted to discuss." She stood and brushed off her robes.  "Now do go bathe before dinner.  The smell of sweat doesn't mix well with stew."

 

Zevran laughed as she strode off and walked over to where his daggers lay on the ground.  Flipping one up in the air, he caught it neatly by the hilt and tucked it into the waistline of his trousers.  _I'm beginning to see how Hawke managed to defeat Meredith.  I would not wish to be on her bad side._

_###_

Zevran lay on his back with his arms stretched up and hands behind his head.  He felt wonderfully clean from his bath in the stream, and his stomach was comfortably full from a good-sized meal of meat and potatoes.  It was late, and the stars had risen to bring silver light to the needles of the pine trees.  Zevran had retired to Fenris's tent and was humming to himself while he waited for Fenris to complete a last scout around the perimeter of the camp.

 

He ignored the tell-tale rustle of Fenris scrubbing his feet clean at the entrance and continued humming as the taller elf ducked through the flap.  Fenris removed his armor and carefully lay it on a nearby chest but kept his sword on the ground beside his side of the bedroll.  He sat cross-legged next to Zevran and waited silently until the assassin had finished his song.

 

"Where did you hear that tune?" Fenris frowned at him curiously.

 

"After my mother died, I was raised by the women of the whorehouse where she had plied her trade.  There was an elf there with Dalish _vallaslin,_ who often sung me that song when I had nightmares.  I have lost the words to time, but the music remains with me... the only thing I have left from that place.  I always assumed it was a Dalish tune, even though she denied being Dalish."

 

"It is a song from Tevinter," Fenris said.  "A common lullaby that mothers sing to their children."

 

"Ah, I have been wrong then, all these years." Zevran rolled to his side and propped his head on one hand.  "You mentioned while I was still abed that your master is dead.  Will you tell me that story now?"

 

"If you wish." Fenris uncrossed his long legs and stretched out beside Zevran.  He stared up at the vent in the ceiling of the tent for so long, Zevran had begun to think he had changed his mind.  Finally, Fenris began to speak in a flat, emotionless tone, as if it was a story he had told countless times.  He told of the sister who had written, begging for aid and how he had warily taken Hawke and Varric with him to meet her at the Hanged Man.  He told of her betrayal and Danarius's words to Hawke, asking that she give him Fenris.  His voice never faltered as he described the ensuing battle that ended in his master's death... and then his sister's, whose name he would never speak again.

 

When he had finished, his voice fell silent, and they both lay very still, lost in thought.  Fenris continued to stare up blankly, ignoring the intense scrutiny Zevran was giving him with his head still propped on his hand.  The warrior's chest felt heavy, weighed down by the memory of sorrow and disappointment, but those were emotions of weakness, and he would not submit to them.  _I won my freedom.  That is all that matters._   At one time, reuniting with his family had been what mattered.  _I have no family._ So mired was he in his bitterness, he didn't see the slender hand reaching out to him until he felt the brush of fingers on his collarbone.

 

He startled and almost pulled away by instinct but then remembered this was _Zevran_.  Zevran withdrew his fingers, brow furrowed with concern.

 

"Is this... okay?"

 

Fenris nodded slowly and watched as Zevran again reached out to caress a patch of skin on his breast, unmarked by lyrium.  He closed his eyes and focused on relaxing, on simply allowing the touch.  When the fingers skimmed lightly over a line of lyrium, he tensed in anticipation but opened his eyes in surprise.  There was no hideous sensation of crawling beneath his skin, no need to flinch away from the discomfort of magic interacting with his tattoos.  He raised his head from the bedroll to watch as Zevran lowered his palm to Fenris's chest and began to move it in slow, soothing circles.

 

"Still okay?" Fenris nodded and lay his head back, relishing the caress.  "Am I hurting you at all?"

 

"No.  I do not like to be touched by mages.  Their powers interact with the lyrium unpleasantly.  Even being near them... it is uncomfortable.  But you are not a mage."

 

Zevran chuckled.  "My good luck then, if it allows me to touch you as I wish." Fenris opened his mouth to ask exactly how Zevran wished to touch him, but just at that moment, Zevran swiped his thumb over a hardened nipple, and Fenris sucked in his breath sharply.

 

"Good, yes?" Zevran's voice had gone soft, almost purring.

 

"Yes."

 

Zevran continued to explore, running his palm over Fenris's well-built pectorals and dipping lower to his toned stomach.  His ears registered the shift in Fenris's breathing and the twitch in his fingers, but the other elf lay still and compliant.  Very slowly, Zevran leaned over Fenris until he was close enough to kiss the warrior if he wished.  Fenris met his gaze with half-lidded eyes and reached up to pull the tie from Zevran's hair.  The silky locks fell forward across Zevran's shoulders, and Fenris carded his fingers through them, enjoying the feel of the soft strands against his calloused skin.

 

"I like your hair." The words slipped out unintentionally, and Fenris bit his lip, but Zevran's warm smile relaxed him again.

 

"I like you touching it, _mi querido_.  You may do it as often as you like." Before Fenris could respond, Zevran lowered his head and brushed his lips along Fenris's mouth.

 

Fenris responded by parting his lips slightly, and Zevran slid his tongue softly against the fullness of Fenris's bottom lip.  The warrior drew in a shuddering breath and closed his fingers in a tight grip within Zevran's hair.  Encouraged, Zevran pressed his lips more firmly against Fenris's and continued exploring the chapped lips with his tongue, coaxing, until with a muted groan, Fenris opened his mouth and met Zevran's tongue with his own.

 

A shared shiver reverberated through both elves, their bodies electrified with the sudden surge of desire.  Zevran wanted more but restrained himself with an iron will, letting Fenris take control.  The warrior was responding beautifully, sliding his tongue into Zevran's mouth and plundering it with a thoroughness that more than made up for inexperience.  His fingernails scratched delightfully against Zevran's scalp as he pulled the assassin closer, and Zevran hummed in approval.  He doubted Fenris was even aware of the slow, instinctual thrusts of his hips, his body acting on desires of its own.  Zevran held his lower body away from Fenris, not wanting to bring the warrior's attention to his growing erection.  _He is utterly gorgeous in his desire but I must not push too fast or too hard._  Instead, Zevran took pleasure in the intensity of the kiss:  the heat of Fenris's mouth, the slickness of his tongue, the bruising ache of swelling lips.

 

It was Zevran who finally pulled away, afraid of losing control to the passion rising within.  Lowering his forehead to Fenris's bare chest, he focused on slowing his breathing, on the rhythm of Fenris's heartbeat, on the stroke of fingers moving through his hair.  When his arousal faded enough that the crotch of his pants were no longer tight, he let out a long sigh and laid his head on Fenris's chest, curling his body against the warrior's side.

 

"That was exquisite, _mi querido_.  Do you know how often I have dreamed of doing that these many months since Kirkwall?"  Fenris was silent for so long, Zevran began to drift, lulled by the repetitive movements of Fenris's fingers in his hair.  When the other elf finally spoke, he was too sleepy to do more than smile.

 

"Not as many times as I have."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Zevgirl, for all you do in editing my stories! Hope everyone is still enjoying the show!


	5. Chapter 5

"We have spent enough time running and gathering our people.  It's time to fight back."

 

A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd that surrounded Marian Hawke.  A sea of robes in shades of gray, blue, and black surrounded the wide stump upon which she stood, filling the small clearing in the middle of the camp.  Fenris felt his difference from the mages more distinctly than usual, a weed amidst a field of flowers.  Gritting his teeth, he hunched his shoulders and bristled within his forbidding armor like a hedgehog keeping enemies at bay.  He didn't want to be here; but Hawke had insisted, using his own curiosity against him, dangling her next move before his eyes while promising a fight.

 

Fenris badly needed a fight; he grew weary of fleeing.  For this, he would endure a meeting surrounded by mages and their auras of magic, a constant bombardment upon his brands.  His skin was crawling, tendrils of Fade weaving through the lyrium beneath his skin like cloying vines.  Only the presence of Zevran at his side kept him from bolting, but he could not suppress the persistent twitching of his body in reaction to the discomfort.  Zevran laid his hand against the exposed skin of Fenris’s forearm, clearly sensing his unease.  The gesture grounded him, a calm river in the middle of a roiling sea of sensation, and he touched Zevran's hand briefly in thanks before turning his attention back to Hawke.

 

"Some Circles have succeeded in freeing themselves from the templars, but the Circle in Ansburg has become a prison.  The Margrave chose to support the Chantry and gave his troops to the templars to help subdue the mages.  Our people are being held in cells and smited daily to keep them drained of their powers.  They live like _dogs_.  They are thrown scraps for food.  Templars pour buckets of icy water over their heads instead of allowing them a proper bath.  They are forced to make waste in the corners of their cells, which are rarely cleaned.  We will not permit this to continue!"

 

The magic under Fenris’s skin buzzed and sizzled as the mages around him reacted in anger.  He shifted uncomfortably, brow furrowing as he tried to shake off his growing irritation.

 

"We hope to find a way to help our people peacefully, but if not, we will fight until every last mage has escaped that place.  A small group will remain here to maintain our base and keep the revolution alive if we should fail.  The rest of us shall leave tomorrow at dawn.  We go to Ansburg!"  The mages met her words with a resounding cheer.

 

Anders took her place on the stump and began to divide the mages, telling each one whether they would be staying or leaving in the morning.  Those who were told to remain at camp drooped in disappointment, but did not voice any complaint.  Hawke had taken an oath from each mage she accepted into her group, making them promise to follow orders.  No one wished to be expelled and left to the mercy of the templars.

 

As most of the crowd drifted away to make their preparations, Hawke beckoned Fenris, Varric, Merrill, Isabela, Zevran, and several other mages to follow her to one side of the clearing for a private conference.  Fenris relaxed more as the agonizing influence of the mages' presence dwindled.  After a few minutes, Anders finished his task and joined them as Hawke began to explain her plans.

 

"We need to know exactly what we're up against before we reveal ourselves in an outright attack.  Fenris, I want you and Isabela to infiltrate the Circle.  The building is an old palace that was used by the Margrave of Ansburg before the Third Blight, and we have a parchment that shows the layout.  It was turned over to the Chantry when the new palace was built, and the templars converted it to a home for mages.  I need to know where the mages are currently being held within the building and if there's a way to free them during the attack so they can assist us."

 

"Infiltration is a specialty of a trained assassin," said Zevran in his soft, lilting accent.  "And yet, you would leave me behind?" He tucked a loose tendril of silky hair behind his ear and gave an aggrieved pout.

 

One of the mages looked at him in sharp suspicion.  "How do we even know we can trust you?  You are not a mage."

 

"Neither am I."  Fenris’s deep rumble caught their attention.  He rarely spoke at meetings, content to let others make the decisions.  "I will take responsibility for Zevran if he wishes to accompany us."

 

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it for all the brandy in Antiva!" Zevran grinned. "Since none is available at the moment, anyway."

 

Hawke rubbed her chin to hide a smile.  "I think Zevran would be better off coming with us.  Then we can keep an eye on him."  Her eyes narrowed.  "This won't be a lark, Zevran.  I cannot promise we will win."

 

The assassin lazily withdrew a knife from his belt and tossed it into the air, catching it neatly in a firm grip.  "Death and I dance well with one another, Lady Hawke.  Every journey is a risk, and some promises are better kept than others."  Amber eyes found green ones as he said this, and Fenris felt a sharp sensation in his chest that was not quite pain, but still enough to pull the air from his lungs in a hitch of breath.  He needed badly to feel those full lips against his own.

 

Hawke caught the exchange and gave Zevran a long, measured look before finally nodding in acceptance.  "Very well.  You come with us, and you will accompany Fenris and Isabela into the Circle."

 

"Oh, a threesome!"  Isabela raked her eyes over the two elves.  "I will _adore_ spending some private time with two such handsome men."  She blew a kiss at Fenris’s glare and smirked widely at Zevran.  "It has been far too long, Zevran."  Zevran merely lifted an eyebrow, but Fenris stiffened at Isabela's words.  He was aware that Isabela and Zevran knew each other but hadn't realized that their relationship might have been more... physical.

 

"Just make sure you save me the juicy tidbits," said Varric while Anders rolled his eyes.  He met Fenris’s irritated look with an apologetic shrug.

 

"Enough, guys.  Go get your stuff ready for tomorrow.  It will probably take almost a week to reach Ansburg."  Hawke grabbed Anders’s arm and maneuvered him toward their tent.  As the others dispersed, Zevran sidled up to Fenris with a particularly lascivious smirk.

 

"So it would seem that we are traveling the road together, my friend.  Might I continue to share your tent?"

 

Fenris glanced at Isabela's retreating back with a frown.  "What has been _too long_ for you and Isabela?"

 

The smirk disappeared as swiftly as if Fenris had wiped it off.  When Zevran spoke, his voice was quiet and serious.  "I will not deny that Isabela and I shared pleasure in the distant past.  You already know I have bedded many others.  I have never hid my history from you."

 

Fenris dropped his gaze to the ground, where loamy soil bunched between his toes.  "I am aware of it, but I do not know the extent of the... feelings... you might have had."

 

"Ah."  Zevran stepped closer, but mindful of their public location, did not touch the other elf.  "There have been only two women in my life that ever affected me, _mi querido_.  One is dead.  The other remains in Ferelden with her King and is still my friend.  Neither can lay claim to my heart."

 

 _Neither can I_.  But Zevran's words calmed the rising poison in his gut, and he relaxed his stiffened posture.

 

"I will share my tent with you, so long as Isabela and Varric are not invited."

 

There was a moment of silence before Zevran threw back his head, laughing hard enough to draw eyes in their direction.

 

"No threesome or even a foursome, _mi amigo_.  This I promise."

 

###

 

The evening sun flashed brightly on the surface of the water, momentarily blinding Fenris as he entered the stream.  Water bugs skated in lazy paths, leaving tiny V's behind them that Fenris erased with the palm of his hand.  The day had been hot, and the stream was still warm except in the deep places on the far bank that were overshaded by heavy oak trees.  The gurgling of the current was the only sound in the area, and it soothed the anxiety lingering in Fenris’s thoughts.

 

This would be the revolution's first attack, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it.  At one time, he would have been on the other side, supporting the templars.  _How did I get here?_   He knew how, of course... Hawke.  She was his friend and had shown him that not all mages were reprehensible.  Anders was an abomination, but Hawke was someone he respected.  He trusted her as he had no other... until now.

 

Did he trust Zevran?  Tilting his head back, he ducked his head beneath the water and surfaced with rivulets streaming over his face like rain.  The assassin spoke little of his past of the Crows, but Fenris suspected Zevran’s reasons were the same as his in not speaking of his time with Danarius.  They both bore the marks of a tumultuous past, and Fenris wasn't yet ready to explore that dangerous territory.  Zevran had been open and honest in his intentions, however baffling they were.

 

Fenris still puzzled over Zevran's attraction to him.  Stretching his arms above him, he squinted up into the sunlight to watch the play of water over the lines of his biceps.  His gaze then drifted down to examine the smooth planes of his stomach and the sparse dark hair that grew between his legs.  _Ordinary_.  When he had lived with Danarius, other elves had shied away from his heavily tattooed appearance, looking with disgust at the brands that marred his skin.  The magisters had seemed fascinated, however, on those occasions when Danarius had shared him with guests.  Fenris closed his eyes and shivered, pushing those memories back into the cage in which he kept them hidden from everyday thought.  If he allowed them space in his mind, they would drive him mad.

 

A faint rustle of leaves caught his ear, and he turned to find Zevran stooping over the ground near the bank, laying some clothes and a towel next to where Fenris had left his.  He had left the assassin back at camp eating dinner, saying only that he wished to bathe before sleep since it was unknown whether they would encounter any water on their journey.  Fenris’s preferred bathing spot was farther downstream from where most of the camp bathed, so as to ensure his privacy, but Zevran had obviously tracked him here.

 

Fenris had never been self-conscious of his nudity; slaves were often denied clothes at auctions so that buyers could see exactly what they were getting.  Some magisters preferred to keep their attractive slaves unclothed for their own enjoyment.  During his time in Kirkwall, he had often bathed with Hawke and her companions with no embarrassment, in spite of Isabela's catcalls.  This was _Zevran_ , however, and a particular look from Zevran felt as sensuous as a caress, much like the look he was giving Fenris now.

 

Fenris flushed but refused to turn away from Zevran's appreciative gaze.  Instead, he watched with equal fascination as Zevran calmly removed his armor and underclothes, amber eyes unwavering.  He had seen Zevran naked during the assassin's recovery, but he had not allowed himself to indulge then.  Since Zevran was openly assessing Fenris’s physique, he saw no problem in returning the favor.

 

It was easy to imagine Zevran with a plethora of bed partners.  His hair was the color and texture of corn silk and gleamed gold in the waning sunlight.  The elf was slim, but well-toned with smooth, hairless skin that had seen much sun.  His age was indeterminate but for the fine lines at the corners of his golden eyes.  His body had weathered many wounds, and scars of various textures interrupted the smooth expanse of bronzed skin.  Fenris took special note of raised, pale lines that criss-crossed Zevran's back in an intricate pattern, a pattern he knew well from his days in slavery when he had been forced to watch as others were whipped until blood pooled on the ground.

 

Fenris continued to admire Zevran’s body as he entered the stream and waded slowly to where Fenris stood in water that was waist-deep.

 

"I hope my presence does not offend you, _mi querido_.  I, too, wish to bathe before we leave, and the sun sets early still, even though summer is fast approaching."

 

"I do not mind."

 

Zevran raised his hand from the water to display a green bar within his palm.  "Hawke was kind enough to lend me her herbal soap.  I _do_ so detest the harshness of lye.  Skin should be treated well, just as Antivans treat their leather, and it shall last longer." He smiled up at the taller elf.  "Perhaps you would allow me to bathe you?  It is difficult to wash one's own backside."

 

Fenris nodded his assent, and Zevran pulled him to slightly deeper water.  They had continued to share a bedroll at night, which led to many caresses and kisses, but they had not progressed to removing their trousers.  Zevran's touch was no longer unfamiliar, and when the assassin placed his lathered hands on Fenris’s skin, Fenris relaxed into the touch with a contented sigh.  The rippling current served as a sensual counterpoint to Zevran's circular rubs, and Fenris closed his eyes, soothed by the dual sensations.  Zevran's hands made their way from shoulders to lower back, leaving no piece of skin untouched. 

 

It wasn't until Zevran pressed against his back, encircling Fenris’s torso with his arms and washing his chest, that the mood shifted.  When Zevran's thumbs brushed over Fenris’s nipples, the air became heavy; the rushing sound of the water suddenly too loud as his skin flushed with queer warmth.  Zevran's hands moved methodically toward his hips, and Fenris’s muscles tensed, struggling to hold still.  He was certain Zevran knew of the effect he was having on Fenris and perhaps had even planned it.

 

"I cannot wash your legs while they are underwater.  Would you like to move to the bank?"  Zevran's voice was neutral, betraying nothing, and Fenris wondered what the other elf intended.  The thought of Zevran kneeling on the ground before him with his long, blond hair cascading over his shoulders as he lathered Fenris’s thighs....

 

"I can wash them before I step out."  By the Void... the images in his head, the tingling in his skin, the slow stiffening of his cock... the sight of Zevran kneeling before him would undo him completely.

 

"As you wish."  Then everything changed as Zevran placed a light kiss directly between Fenris’s shoulder blades, sealing it with a flick of his tongue along the ridge of Fenris’s spine.

 

Fenris gasped and almost lost his footing on the rocks under his feet, but Zevran held him firmly by the hips, sliding his tongue slowly up protruding vertebrae to the nape of Fenris’s neck.  Teeth closed over the sensitive skin there as Zevran nipped it gently, pulling Fenris firmly against his chest.

 

Heat surged through Fenris’s groin and straight into his cock, and he could hear his heartbeat through the roar in his ears.  The world collapsed, no longer consisting of anything except him and Zevran.  His skin was a live thing with a mind of its own, aching... _yearning..._ for Zevran's touch, for more of his moist tongue's caress.  He was barely even aware that he was being guided toward shallower water.  His body responded with alacrity to the pressure of Zevran's hands.

 

Only when the clever fingers left him, to lather the bar of soap, did clarity sear through the haze.  A flash of buried memory surfaced:  harsh, mocking laughter, rough hands on his hips turning him around as eager eyes raked his body, fingers grabbing his hair and pulling his head back in a vicious yank as he was forced to kneel....

 

Immediately, soothing hands rubbed his shoulders, and a soft voice murmured in his ear.

 

" _Shh_.  I have promised you, _mi querido_ , that I will never take advantage.  If you wish me to stop, you need only say the word.  I desire only to give you pleasure."

 

Fenris took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing.  This was Zevran, not Danarius.  He had a choice here, and he never doubted that Zevran would stop if asked.  _Do I want him to stop?_   His body still quivered, and he could feel the needy ache in his groin.  _I want... I **want**_.  But to give himself over to another so completely... was he ready?  _I am not vulnerable this time.  I am strong_.

 

Behind him, Zevran withdrew his hands but remained close enough for Fenris to feel the heat radiating from the other elf's body.  "I have moved too fast, and for this, I apologize, my friend.  I would not endanger our relationship."

 

" _No_.”  Fenris turned his head sharply and grasped Zevran's hands, bringing them back to his hips.  "I will _not_ give in to my fear."

 

"And what is your fear?"  Fenris realized then, from the gentle tone in Zevran's voice, that the assassin already knew.

 

"To appear weak in front of another.  To place myself in another's power."  It was the first time he had voiced this aloud, for to confess this was another fear, another weakness.

 

"Sharing pleasure is a strength, not a weakness.  To be able to give and to receive... it is a powerful thing, no?  When you see the joy, the ecstasy, in your partner's eyes... when you feel the pleasure given to you freely by another... there is nothing that can compare to this.  When you are ready, I will show you."

 

"I want... I do not wish for you to stop."  Fenris was trembling now, his body craving Zevran's continued touch, his mind needing to banish those memories that simmered just beneath the surface.

 

"We will take it slowly, hmm?"  Zevran's breath ghosted over wet skin, and his hands rubbed once more at Fenris’s back in soothing circles.

 

Within minutes, Fenris had relaxed again, leaning back into Zevran's chest as the other elf drew him closer to stroke the taut skin over his abdomen.

 

"Yes, like that, _querido_." A hot tongue traced the shell of Fenris’s ear in between reassuring words.  "Let me do this for you."

 

Zevran stayed close as he lathered his hands again, distracting Fenris with tantalizing licks along his shoulder.  Slick palms moved lower, brushing against the triangle of dark hair below Fenris’s navel.  Fenris sucked in his breath, and then Zevran was _there_ , slender hand closing gently around Fenris’s erection.

 

He couldn't _help_ it, couldn't hold back the thrust of his hips into the heat encircling his cock.  _So good_.  He arched back, head tilting back as unfocused eyes took in the deep blue of the sky.

 

"You are beautiful when you let go of your control, _mi querido_.  Magnificent... stunning."

 

The words stoked the fire within further, and Fenris hissed as Zevran began to move his hand in long, firm strokes, forming a rhythm with the thrusts of Fenris’s hips.  When he circled the head with his thumb, dipping it in the clear fluid beading there, Fenris groaned.

 

It was incredible, so much more exquisite than when done alone, and he _trusted_ Zevran.  He could relax and give himself over to the pleasure without shame or fear of abuse.  Zevran slipped into his native tongue, words of encouragement spilling out in a melodic cadence that was as sensual as his touch.  As Zevran quickened his strokes, Fenris reached back, twining his fingers into Zevran's silky hair.  Zevran hummed in approval, and the vibration traveled into the soft skin beneath Fenris’s ear, which Zevran was teasing with flicks of his tongue.

 

Pressure built, _expanded_ , and then Zevran pressed close, his erection brushing into the cleft between Fenris’s buttocks.  It was a simple caress, heated skin seeking an instinctual release, and the intimacy of it unraveled Fenris.  With a strangled cry, he came hard, his lanky body convulsing in Zevran's arms.  The smaller elf gripped him firmly, holding him up as the shockwaves sent his mind spiraling out into the Void, and for a time, there was nothing but the sweetness of release.

 

When he returned to the present, to the stream, the trees, and the fading sun, he was still leaning against Zevran.  Every sense was heightened, and his skin still tingled.  He could hear the chirps of birds as they settled down for the night and Zevran’s deep breaths behind him.  He could feel the pressure of Zevran's erection against his flank and the trickle of semen down the front of his thigh.

 

"You were amazing, _mi querido_ , beautiful.  Thank you for allowing me to give you this."

 

The words were whispered, reverent in the aftermath, but Fenris could hear the unevenness in his voice as Zevran struggled to contain his own arousal.  He turned slowly to face the other elf, taking in the flush of Zevran's skin, the pupils wide enough to blot out the gold, the cock standing proudly erect and wanting.

 

"I...."  His voice faltered as uncertainty crept back into his mind.  He had never been allowed to make his own choices before; Danarius had always commanded his actions.  Zevran saw his indecision and reached out to take Fenris’s hand, bringing the palm to his lips to plant a gentle kiss there.

 

"You owe me nothing, my friend.  I wished only to give you pleasure.  For myself, I can wait until you are ready."  He gave Fenris a mischievous grin.  "Shall we go bathe again?  I fear I have ruined my earlier efforts."

 

By the time they had returned to the deeper area of the water, Zevran's erection had diminished, and they both took their time leisurely washing each other.  Fenris used the opportunity to familiarize himself with Zevran's body, running his lathered hands over tanned skin and admiring the tattoos that accentuated the muscles in his chest, back, and stomach.  For the first time, he began to believe that his brands might have some aesthetic beauty as well, given their similarity to Zevran's.

 

When finished, they toweled off and dressed in the clean clothes they had brought.  As he followed Zevran back up the path leading to the camp, Fenris gave the stream one last glance.  Would they be able to return here in the future?  He smiled to himself as they made their way through dense trees, storing forever the memory of Zevran standing nude amidst the rushing water, and of pleasure given freely and received in gratitude.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Zevgirl and Scarylady for editing and critiquing my work. Hugs to everyone who is reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Zevran cursed under his breath, hands instinctively reaching for his daggers before stopping in midair.  It was far too late to mount a defense, and drawing weapons would only escalate the situation.  He should have insisted on scouting ahead instead of leaving Hawke to send an amateur.  _I have grown careless.  The Crows would laugh to see it, even as they slit my throat._   Angry at his foolishness, he pushed past several mages, heading for the front of the group, where Hawke walked with Anders along the shaded path they were following.

 

He _knew_ why he had not volunteered, of course, and it had much to do with the elven warrior who dominated his every thought.  Since leaving camp, Zevran had spent most of his time strolling with Fenris, sharing stories of his various escapades with the Crows.  At first, Fenris had merely listened with the same solemnity he always displayed.  On the second day, he emerged from his shell, not only answering questions about Tevinter, but also offering anecdotes about his time with Danarius and the Fog Warriors.

 

Late that night, within the privacy of their tent and the sanctuary of Zevran's arms, he had haltingly told Zevran the tale of his betrayal on Seheron.  Perhaps he found it easier to confess such a thing with his back to Zevran’s chest, eyes closed to shut in the pain, but the hunch of his shoulders betrayed him as surely as the tears that never fell.  Zevran held him close that night, and Fenris did not object.  The next night, Zevran reciprocated with the story of Rinna, of love and undying regret, of the slow poison in his soul for which the only antidote was the friendship of his Warden.  That too he told, the tragedy of the assassin who succumbed to the charms of the Hero of Ferelden, only to accept his place as friend instead of lover.  His honeyed voice held no bitterness, for he had long ago accepted his place, appreciating instead the true value of friendship, something he had yet to find in Antiva.

 

Since the intimacy shared in the stream back at camp, he and Fenris had exchanged no more than heated, desperate kisses.  Fenris valued his privacy and was unable to relax on the road, where tents were pitched close and one could hear the snores of their neighbor.  The exchange of regrets, however, of Rinna and Seheron, brought a new kind of intimacy to their relationship, the beginnings of a trust neither took for granted.

 

They were now two days out from Ansburg, making their way through a forest just north of the Minanter River.  The trees hovered thick and close, lending an air of gloom with a touch of wildness.  Hawke had decided to send a scout ahead, wary of the unknown, and Zevran should have spoken, knowing his skills made him the best candidate.

 

He hadn't.  Fenris had expressed an interest in Antivan culture, leading to a delightful conversation on the many bawdy festivals held in Zevran's country.  Never one to turn from an avid audience, especially one so delectably attractive, he had ignored the departure of the mage selected to patrol ahead.  Now he was mentally flogging himself for his unforgivable stupidity.  He should have recognized the signs sooner, heard the sudden silence among the looming oaks along the path.

 

 

Upon reaching the front of Hawke's small army, he grabbed the sleeve of her robe, yanking harder than he intended.  Startled, she whirled around to pin him with a glare.

 

"Zevran!  What in Andraste's—"

 

She got no further, for now Anders was clutching her arm in warning as a sudden movement on the path ahead caught his attention.  The line of travelers came to an abrupt halt as Hawke, Anders, and Zevran froze in place.  Fenris came up behind them, shoving through the crowd impatiently.  At the sight of the figure ahead, he automatically reached for his blade, only to have Zevran grip his wrist with an urgency that could not be ignored.

 

"Make no aggressive move, my friend.  He is not alone."

 

The Dalish elf facing them held no weapon, but the elegant curve of a longbow peeking over his back was warning enough.  His deep brown eyes glittered with suspicion, and his slender body was rigid with aggression.  Ornate tattoos lined the left side of his face, framed by shoulder-length, braided, blond hair.  If his entire demeanor had not radiated such intense unfriendliness, he would have been admiringly handsome.

 

"Why do so many mages cross the Evenlist Forest?”  His voice was almost as deep as Fenris's, but rough and gravelly as sand.

 

Hawke raised her hands, palms outward.  "We mean neither the forest nor its inhabitants any harm.  We are only passing through on our way to Ansburg."

 

"Indeed?”  The Dalish cocked his head, eyes sweeping the group behind Hawke.  "Apostate mages travel to a city where mages are currently imprisoned by those sworn to protect them?"

 

Anders shifted, eyes narrowing.  "And what of it?  It's none of your business." Zevran hissed his displeasure at Anders's rudeness, and Hawke shot her lover a glare.

 

"Forgive my companion's words, please.  Like all of us, he deplores the conditions in Ansburg, and it sours his mood."  Hawke grabbed Anders's hand and squeezed it in warning.  "My name is Hawke, and we aren't here to interfere with the Dalish.  Please allow us to pass."

 

The elf's eyes widened slightly at Hawke's name.  "Your name is known here, _shem_ , as is your rebellion.”  He paused, his eyes widening at the sight of Merrill, who had pushed her way forward to stand beside Fenris.  Hawke glanced back and frowned at Merrill, giving her a quick shake of her head.  Merrill sent Hawke a pleading look, but Marian made a subtle slashing gesture with her hand, and Merrill lowered her gaze to the ground.  Zevran flicked his eyes between the two of them.  _Hmm, and what is that about, I wonder?_

 

The Dalish elf also seemed curious about the exchange, but seemed inclined to ignore it.  "I think perhaps you should come with me to our village."

 

"What?  Now wait a minute—” Anders stepped forward and drew his staff before Zevran could catch him.  "We just want to pass through, and if you're going to start ordering us around...."

 

A sound like a sudden rush of wind came from the trees, and they were immediately surrounded by fifteen Dalish, bows drawn and aimed at Hawke's people.

 

"Put away your staff unless you wish us all dead," whispered Zevran.  Hawke nodded, and Anders reluctantly placed his staff back in its sling.  Zevran moved in front of Hawke and offered the Dalish elf a small bow.

 

"My friend, I apologize for the rudeness of my comrade." Anders opened his mouth angrily but closed it when Hawke poked his ribs sharply.  Zevran continued in his smooth voice, with no trace of his usual coy humor.  "My name is Zevran Arainai, and I have stayed among your people before."

 

The elf lifted an eyebrow in surprise.  "Your name is known here, and I have heard you called a friend to the Dalish.  Do you travel with these mages, _falon_?"

 

"I do, and I will take full responsibility for their actions.  Might I request an audience with your Keeper?  All will be explained."  Hawke shifted behind him, and Zevran prayed to the Gods above and below that she would remain silent.

 

"Very well.  You and Hawke may come with me, but the rest of these people will remain here until we return." He did not have to add that his warriors would remain also.

 

Zevran beckoned to Hawke, who murmured something to Anders before joining Zevran.  Zevran looked at Fenris, giving him a smile of reassurance, but Fenris was clearly no happier with this arrangement than Anders was.  His sword hand flexed and he darted an angry glare at the Dalish elf waiting on the path, but he remained with Anders as Hawke and Zevran followed the elf through the trees.

 

In due time, they reached a large clearing bordered by many aravel.  Off in the distance beyond the farthest campfire, a small herd of halla grazed.  Several armed Dalish guards quickly intercepted the group, but the elf who had led them here gestured them away with a few barked words.  The guards stepped back, allowing Hawke and Zevran to enter the camp.

 

Many stares of frank curiosity and hostility greeted their arrival.  The Dalish froze in their various tasks and stood quietly, watching in silence as the newcomers passed.  Their faces were drawn and worried, the air full of tension.  _Something has happened here_ , thought Zevran.

 

Their leader stopped before a large tent in the middle of the camp and called out to whoever was inside.  The flap opened to reveal a petite female elf with cropped red hair, dressed in a soft, green robe.  A circular golden medallion hung at her throat, denoting rank.  She carried the customary gnarled, wooden staff favored by Dalish mages, leaning heavily on it while her eyes appraised Zevran and Hawke.

 

"Aris?”  She cast a questioning look at the male who had brought them here.

 

"We found them traveling through the forest on the eastern trail."  Aris politely spoke the common language.  "There are a large number of them, _Hahren_ , most of who are mages.”  He gestured at Zevran.  "This one is Zevran Arainai.  He accepts responsibility for them."

 

The woman turned a sharp eye on Zevran.  " _Andaran atish'an, falon_.  It has been long since the last _Arlathvhen_ , but your name is known among the Dalish."

 

Zevran bowed, deeper than he had to Aris.  " _Ma serannas_ , Keeper."

 

"I am not the Keeper."  Pain clouded the woman's eyes, but she recovered quickly.  "Come inside and sit with me.  Please."  She disappeared back into the tent, and Hawke followed her inside with Zevran.

 

The inside of the tent was immaculate, but sparse in decor.  A small fire burned in a hearth in the center, the smoke rising lazily to the vent above.  A cot rested on one side next to a large chest.  On the other side, a long workable, covered with dried herbs, stood next to a bucket of water.  Folded blankets lay in a circle around the hearth, and the woman sat on one, indicating that Zevran and Hawke sit on the others.

 

Zevran slipped into a cross-legged position with practiced ease, masking his disquiet with a lazy smile.  His eyes had spied the workable immediately upon entering the tent, and his nose picked up the faint bitter scent of deathroot, a favorite poison used by the Dalish.  In his mind's eye, he still saw the circle of Dalish archers, their arrows trained on Hawke's people.  Also, this woman, while clearly the leader, was _not_ the Keeper.

 

He was not about to relax here.

 

The woman gave them a welcoming nod.  "My name is Berendil, and I am the First for the Darael clan, whose camp you now sit within."

 

"I am Marian Hawke, and apparently, you already know Zevran."  Hawke gave Zevran a sidelong glance that promised an extensive interrogation later.  He pretended not to notice.  "I apologize if we have caused your people any offense, but we are merely traveling through this forest on the way to Ansburg.  We did not even know your clan was here."

 

"Aris has instructions to investigate any who pass near us," said Berendil.  "We have had trouble, so now we are more careful." She nodded to Zevran.  "Zevran has aided the Dalish in the past and so is known to us.  Your name is also known, Champion, but whether that is good or bad is yet to be determined.  Word has reached us of the Sabrae clan and the death of Marethari."  Her lips tightened.  "It is said you and your friends had something to do with her death."

 

"She succumbed to a demon," said Hawke.  "She was trying to protect her First, Merrill, but the demon was too strong and took control."

 

"I see.”  Skepticism dripped from every word.  “And where is her First now?"

 

"With us, currently surrounded by some of your people, in fact.  With arrows aimed at her, as well as the rest of those who accompany me."  Hawke made no effort to hide her anger.

 

Berendil shifted uncomfortably.  "I apologize for our harsh actions, but we have suffered our own loss recently, and it has made us wary."

 

"Your Keeper," said Zevran quietly.  It was not a question.

 

"The Templars took her."  Berendil's reedy voice turned harsh with fury.  "She had gone to the alienage in Ansburg to give what aid she could to our city brethren.  There was a plague . . . children were dying.  Our Keeper has a soft heart."  The First's lips twisted in pain.  "I begged her not to go.  The _shemlen_ have never been trustworthy, but she wouldn't listen.  Two of our warriors went with her, but they could not protect her when the Templars arrested her before she even laid foot in the alienage.  Now she is locked up with the mages in the Circle."

 

"We can get her out," said Hawke.  At Berendil's doubtful expression, she leaned forward, eyes ablaze with fervor.  "That's why we are here.  We are going to Ansburg, to free the Circle."

 

It was amazing, Zevran thought, how quickly Fate could swivel on her heel.  He remembered a muggy night in Kirkwall on a rooftop and the flash of emeralds in the dark below a shock of snowy hair.  He remembered a voice with a current that ran deep and strong, powered not by water, but by will and the determination to be free.  Now he heard the same current in a different voice, from a different elf.

 

"Then we go with you.  The _Elvhen_ shall join the mages in battle."

 

###

 

At Berendil’s command, Aris led Hawke’s people to where Hawke and Zevran awaited them with the Dalish, who invited them to spend the night.  The _Elvhen_ were still understandably skittish around the _shemlen_ but were doing their best to overcome their fears.  Some even offered to help the mages set up camp.  Zevran and Fenris erected their tent, and Fenris went to help Varric and Isabela, leaving Zevran to wander off alone.

 

The ancient statues of the Dalish pantheon were a familiar part of every Dalish camp, a perpetual rebellion against the dominion of Andraste.  One in particular captured Zevran’s attention, as it always did when he visited the Dalish.  Pockmarked with age, the statue’s details were worn away, leaving only the shape of the wolf.  The stone was ice-cold beneath Zevran's palm, in spite of the heat of the afternoon and the bright splash of sunlight resting between the wolf's ears.  _As frigid and detached as any of the gods, pursuing their own agenda while mortals struggle to make a path of their own._   The crunch of dry twigs behind him broke his reverie, as Fenris approached and stopped at his side in front of the statue, close enough for Zevran to feel the heat of his skin.

 

"Are you familiar with the Dalish gods?" he asked.

 

"No.  The Dalish avoid Tevinter . . . with good reason."

 

"This god is known as the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel.  A cunning trickster, he is."  Zevran looked over at Fenris, noticing a twig caught within a lock of white hair.  Very deliberately, he removed it, allowing his index finger to lightly brush over the tip of Fenris's ear.  Hearing the unmistakable hitch in the warrior's breath, he smiled. 

 

"Would you like to know the story of Fen'Harel?"

 

"I would."  Fenris never turned his gaze from the statue, but Zevran heard the distinct timbre in Fenris's voice, the current of arousal that always seemed to be present now whenever Zevran was near.

 

"Fen'Harel was the only god who could walk among both the gods of the People and the Forgotten Ones, their enemies.  The gods trusted him because he was one of their own, a brother who promised to arrange a truce for them, for they grew weary of war with their enemies.  The Forgotten Ones trusted him because his nature was like theirs, conniving and deceitful.  The Forgotten Ones craved power and always they strove against the gods of the People.  So Fen'Harel, clever as he was, took matters into his own hands.  He promised the Forgotten Ones a way to overcome their foes, and he would go before them to arrange it if they would wait patiently in the Abyss.  As they waited, the gods in their heaven, and the Forgotten Ones in their hell, Fen'Harel fooled them both, sealing them in their respective realms, away from mortal lands forever.  And so their war ended, leaving mortals in peace, but also without aid.  When Arlathan fell, there were no gods to rescue the _Elvhen_ from their fate."

 

"A curse and a blessing both then," said Fenris.

 

"Indeed.  He is always found at the edge of a Dalish camp, facing outward to remind the _Elvhen_ that they must be wary."  Zevran turned back to the statue.  "Perhaps you are named after him?  _Fenris_ is a variation of Fen'Harel."

 

"My master chose the name, calling me his 'little wolf.’  It was not my name . . . before."

 

"Do you know what your true name is?"

 

Fenris hesitated so long Zevran almost regretted asking the question.  When the warrior answered at last, it was as if he was tearing the name from his soul.

 

"Leto."

 

Zevran stepped slowly in front of Fenris and touched his cheek as tenderly as he would a babe.  The emerald eyes gazing back at him held something broken, something raw, and Zevran wished nothing more than to ease the pain he saw there.

 

"It suits you."  Zevran leaned in, just barely brushing his lips against Fenris's.  "Leto," he whispered, just before Fenris claimed his mouth with his own, devouring Zevran with a need brighter and hotter than the sun flickering through the leaves above.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for continuing to read and kudos/comment! A special thank-you to Zevgirl for all her help and encouragement.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've all been so patient waiting for this chapter while I've been dealing with real life issues, so I hope you all enjoy the upcoming smut! I have also commissioned a portrait for this story and will post it once it's finished. Thanks for continuing to read, kudos, and review! The real kudos goes to Zevgirl for sticking with me all this time.

The moment would have been perfect if only Isabela did not have a habit of appearing at the wrong place at the wrong time.  Her low whistle sent Fenris reeling back from the kiss as if Isabela had yanked a leash around his throat.  Severely displeased, Zevran shot Isabela an annoyed glare, which merely deepened the gleeful smirk she wore.

 

"Oh ho!" she exclaimed from where she leaned insolently against a tree.  "Now _this_ is a much more delightful sight than ogling the handsome but snobby Dalish!"

 

A flush rose from Fenris's tattooed throat to his cheeks, but his voice was deathly calm.  "I am sure you would have better luck with one of them."

 

There was a brief silence while Zevran and Isabela exchanged a surprised look before they both burst into peals of laughter.

 

"Now Fenris," said Isabela, wiping a tear from her eye, "I do believe you've acquired a sense of humor!"

 

Fenris scowled at her wide grin.  "If you decide to spread a rumor concerning Zevran and myself, you will find I have also acquired a taste for silencing pirates."

 

Isabela pressed her index finger and thumb together over her lips.  "I'll play dumb on one condition.  Once you decide to finally acknowledge Zevran as your undying love, I get to be the one to tell the story instead of Varric!"

 

"Very well," growled Fenris through gritted teeth.

 

"Splendid!”  Isabela rose to the toes of her scuffed boots and performed a neat pirouette while blowing them a kiss.  "Until later then, my lovelies!  Don't set the forest afire with your passion!”  She sauntered off toward camp, leaving Fenris to glower at her back.

 

Zevran sighed, cursing the woman silently with every foul word he had ever learned in the Crows.  _If she has frightened off my beautiful warrior, I shall cut her into morsels and feed her to the sea birds_.  He turned to Fenris with the intention of making light of the situation, but the other elf was already stepping away, his green eyes refusing to meet Zevran's.

 

"I shall go finish setting up the tent.”

 

 _He doesn't say_ our _tent_ , Zevran observed bitterly. 

 

"Hawke said the Dalish have offered to provide dinner and an evening of storytelling.  I'll meet you at their camp later.”  Fenris hurried away without a backward glance at Zevran.

 

With a disappointed sigh, Zevran turned back to the statue of Fen'Harel.  _Now he is as skittish as a true wolf in the wild._   Zevran stretched out his hand and caressed the stone nose of the Dalish god.  _If he were tame, however, he would be less interesting, would he not?_   Tilting his head back, Zevran smiled fiercely into the sunlight filtering through the tall boughs above.  _One wild heart knows another.  I won't give up on you,_ mi amor _._

 

Only after he had left the clearing did he realize his mind had spoken the words his soul had known all along.

 

###

 

Silent as a wraith, Fenris flitted through the trees just outside of the cheerful light cast by the numerous bonfires in the Dalish camp.  Checking the perimeter for intruders was nearly second nature by now, a routine he had established after becoming a refugee with Hawke.  It also gave him an excuse to avoid facing Isabela and her knowing smirks.

 

After fleeing Zevran's concerned gaze, he had returned to their tent and made himself busy tidying up their belongings until Hawke had stopped by to tell him they were all going to dinner at the Dalish camp.  Fenris had mumbled something about not being hungry, avoiding Hawke's suspicious glare by fidgeting with a tear in his armor.  After everyone had departed, he had grabbed his sword and sheath, heading into the forest to begin his nightly prowl.

 

Thoughts tumbled through his head, a mixture of self-recrimination and doubt.  Was he ashamed of his relationship with Zevran?  No, it wasn't that . . . not exactly.  He reminisced on his experiences in Tevinter, remembering times he had witnessed other men together.  In the Imperium, homosexual relationships were common between magisters and slaves.  The elite class was expected to marry and produce offspring to carry on the family name, but many magisters turned to their slaves to fulfill other desires.  Some slaves were willing.  Many were not.

 

Fenris paused to lean against a gnarled oak, closing his eyes to force away bitter memories.  His encounters with Danarius had colored his perception of same-sex couplings, which also affected his feelings toward Zevran.  _But he is not Danarius_.  He remembered the gentle caresses he had received at the stream back at camp:  feathery kisses on his spine, soft, accented words of admiration, the exquisite attention Zevran had given to Fenris's pleasure while ignoring his own.  There was no shame in that recollection, only joy.

 

Fenris pushed himself off the tree roughly.  _I have been a fool._   This was not Tevinter, and he was no longer a slave.  _I am free to choose who I wish, and I will not hide my choice._

 

His bare feet picked a path through the brush toward the firelight and the sound of voices.  Entering the Dalish enclave, he took a moment to orient himself.  Various bonfires were scattered around the site, but most people sat in a large circle at the center of camp, listening to a grey-haired Dalish storyteller.  Fenris approached the gathering slowly, searching for laughing, amber eyes and a tattoo that looked like the caress of three fingers on a bronzed cheek.

 

He reached the edge of the seated crowd just as he spotted Zevran, and he froze, toes curling into the dirt to compensate for the abrupt halt.  The assassin sat on a log across the large bonfire, smiling lazily into the flames while another elf, the handsome one who had accosted them on the trail through the Evenlist, spoke intently into Zevran's ear.  The Dalish's name was Aris, Fenris recalled, and his hand rested lightly on Zevran's shoulder, his eyes clearly seeking the golden ones gazing absently at the fire.

 

It was too much.  Every shard of self-doubt speared Fenris's flesh anew as he stared at the two elves, seeing only what he assumed to see:  another man propositioning the assassin he wanted.  Swallowing hard, he backpedaled, only to attract Zevran's stare at exactly the same moment his feet betrayed him with a stumble.  Recovering quickly, he murmured a hushed apology to the glaring elves sitting in front of him and fled back into the welcome darkness of the trees.  He never saw the startled anguish in Zevran's eyes or the assassin's hand half-risen in greeting.

 

###

 

_Mierda._

 

Zevran brushed away Aris's hand from his shoulder harsher than he intended, and the other elf gave him a surprised look.

 

"I am sorry, _mi amigo_ , but I have something to attend to," he murmured to the clearly disappointed Dalish.  Zevran had been lost in troubled thoughts the entire evening, completely consumed with worry over Fenris.  When Aris had sat next to him and begun asking questions about Antiva in a not very subtle attempt at flirtation, Zevran had barely listened, answering in short sentences that differed sharply from the assassin's usual eloquence.

 

The sight of Fenris, unbearably handsome with golden light flickering over silver hair and pale tattoos, had brought a rush of pleasure.  Zevran had raised his hand to beckon him over only to watch as his _querido_ fled with a look of pain that hurt worse than Crow poison.

 

 _Mierda_.

 

It had taken a mere two seconds to realize how he must look with Aris's slender fingers curled around his shoulder.  Coupled with Fenris's damned low esteem, it was little wonder he had left in such a hurry.

 

 _Mierda_.

 

 

He would curse himself to the Void and beyond if it would only fix this immeasurable mess.  Leaving the bonfire behind, he entered the forest where he had seen Fenris depart, but the warrior was long gone.  Zevran leaned his back against a tree and sighed in frustration.

 

 _Shit_.

 

Perhaps he had made a mistake by moving too slow in his intentions.  Surely, Fenris knew by now that Zevran had eyes for no one except him.  _Of course he doesn't, Zevran, you fool.  When has anyone treated him with the care and attention he deserves?_

 

Zevran made his way slowly back to the temporary camp of the mages, clenching and unclenching his fists.  This could not be allowed to continue; he needed to make Fenris aware of his importance to Zevran.  _If I haven't already botched this completely_.  He had been too vague, too content to let Fenris determine the path of their relationship.  It was time to become bold and let the skittish warrior know exactly how things stood.

 

He circled the camp in a fruitless search, unsurprised when he didn't find Fenris.  Zevran knew exactly where he would be, and biting his lip in a rare display of nervousness, he marched into their tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him.

 

He barely had time to gasp before strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him sideways.  Instinct had him groping for his daggers, but those hands wrenched his arms backward and secured them firmly behind his back.  A low growl was the only warning he received before rough lips slammed against his, claiming his mouth with brutal force.

 

Gods above and below, when had he ever been kissed with such possession?  Zevran went immediately pliant, too shocked to do more than allow his mouth to be plundered with a passion that had his cock rigid and swollen within seconds.  When those bruising fingers released his arms to grip Zevran's hips, he swiftly brought them up to bury his trembling fingers in silky white locks, wishing nothing more than to get closer, to open himself even more to that exploring tongue and those controlling hands.

 

His feet were kicked out from beneath him, and the room spun as Fenris lowered him to the ground without ever separating their mouths.  Shaky fingers fumbled with his braids, yanking out the ties.  Zevran tilted his chin up as his hair was gripped and pulled, guiding Zevran's head back and exposing his throat.  With a groan, the assassin yielded to Fenris's questing lips, arching helplessly as teeth nipped the delicate skin. 

 

All reason gone, Zevran dragged at Fenris's tunic blindly, and the warrior pulled away to do the same with Zevran's.  The assassin tried to sit up, reaching for the laces of Fenris's trousers, but Fenris hissed, pinning Zevran down with bruising grips on his biceps.  Zevran went limp as Fenris began licking and biting a trail from collarbone to navel.  Gods, was he _whimpering_?  He was going to have bruises everywhere in the morning . . . .

 

The thought froze him right out of his lust-filled haze.  Now he understood.  The possessive kisses, the grip in his hair, the bites . . . Fenris was claiming him.  Far from intimidated by Aris's flirtation, Fenris was fighting back, marking his territory like the wolf who was his namesake.  The thought went straight to Zevran's groin, filling his cock with unbearable heat.

 

Fenris circled his nipple with a rough tongue, rolling the nub between his teeth and pulling another groan from Zevran.  He buried his hands in shaggy hair, not controlling but encouraging.

 

" _Sì, mi querido_.  Make me yours _, por favor_.”  Ah Gods, maybe he should have asked someone to flirt with him long ago.

 

His words brought a shudder through the elf above him, and with a parting lick at Zevran's swollen nipple, Fenris raised himself up to meet Zevran's glazed eyes.

 

"Are you mine?"

 

The words tore at Zevran's heart, filled with pain as they were.  He placed one hand on Fenris's cheek, brushing back a strand of silver hair.

 

"I have been since Kirkwall, Leto."

 

Fenris swallowed audibly at the sound of his name.  Closing his eyes, he lowered his forehead to rest against Zevran's.

 

"I've been a fool, letting my past cloud my judgment.  I am a free man, yet I act as a slave.  I will not hide what we have anymore.  I will not allow another to step in and claim you."

 

"I have no wish to be claimed by anyone other than you," said Zevran, thrusting up with his hips so Fenris could _feel_ his desire to be possessed.  Fenris groaned and dropped his head to Zevran’s shoulder.

 

" _Venhedis_ ," he swore before rearing back, tearing at Zevran's pants.  Between the two of them and several torn laces, they finally met skin to skin.  There simply wasn't _enough_ , not nearly enough.

 

Fenris's hands were everywhere, mapping every scar, hollow, and line of muscle.  Overwhelmed—it had been a _very_ long time—Zevran writhed beneath him, arching mindlessly into Fenris's caresses.  When finally his lover raised his head, his eyes were a pool of night circled in a sea of green.

 

"Gods, you are beautiful _, mi amor_ ," Zevran murmured, cupping his hand around Fenris's head and pulling him down into a heated kiss.  With his other hand, he gripped Fenris's hip and guided it closer to his, bringing Fenris's cock alongside his own.  Fenris groaned into his mouth, thrusting and sliding cock against cock.

 

Zevran tightened his fist in Fenris’s hair, pulling him back.  "Leto, please, _mi precioso._ "  A shudder tore through him as Fenris rolled his hips once more.  " _Por favor_ , my gorgeous one, I need you inside me."

 

Heavily lidded eyes widened, and Fenris went still.  "You want that?"

 

Mistaking his lover's hesitation for inexperience, Zevran lowered him into another kiss.  "Please," he moaned into Fenris's mouth, biting at the warrior's already swollen lips.

 

Fenris jerked back hard, stumbling in his haste to move away and landing on his ass a few feet from Zevran.  Confused, Zevran propped himself up on his elbows and took in the sight of his lover hunched over on his knees, erection wilting between his legs and eyes full of wary pain.

 

"Leto . . . Fenris, what is wrong, _querido_?”  Zevran replayed the last few moments in his head, struggling to decipher what had gone wrong so quickly.

 

"I cannot . . . do that.  I will not hurt you."

 

Damn the Imperium and damn the master who had so mistreated his most valuable slave.  If he weren't already dead and missing a heart, Zevran would have taken great pleasure in carving it out himself.  _Of course_ , Fenris would associate penetration with pain.  Danarius would never have bothered to show him otherwise.

 

Zevran sat up and extended a hand to Fenris.  "Come here, Leto.”  His skittish lover still looked nervous, but he moved to sit in front of Zevran, who gently placed his hands on either side of Fenris's face to hold his gaze.

 

"Do you trust me, _mi amor_?"

 

"Yes.”  It warmed Zevran's heart, the complete lack of hesitation in the answer.

 

"You have known only pain from your master, yes?  Yet, I will swear to you that such an act, if done properly, will bring only small discomfort and great pleasure to me.  I would not ask otherwise."

 

"It will not . . . hurt you?"

 

"It will not," Zevran assured him.  "Will you allow me to prove it?"

 

The tension went out of Fenris's shoulders, the confusion in his eyes replaced by a fierce hunger.  "Yes."

 

Smiling, Zevran pushed Fenris back against the blankets.  "Wait a moment.”  Rising to his feet, Zevran moved to his pack at the back of the tent and retrieved a small vial.  Setting it next to them, he moved over Fenris and claimed his mouth once more, reveling in the way Fenris arched against him.

 

It was Zevran's turn to explore, and he did it thoroughly, tracing every sinuous line of lyrium with a hot tongue that elicited soft gasps as his reward.  By the time he engulfed Fenris's cock in his mouth, it was again hard and weeping with desire.

 

Fenris cried out in surprise as Zevran took him deep, licking along the shaft as he drew it further into his mouth.  _Gods, the taste_.  How would he ever get enough?  He proceeded to suck and lave the gorgeous cock in his mouth until Fenris's choked grunts almost put _Zevran_ over the edge.  Only then, did he pull away, smiling at Fenris's hiss of protest.  Reaching for the vial, he poured a liberal amount of oil into his hand before moving to sit beside Fenris's head.

 

"Watch, Leto," he commanded as he laid back, spreading his legs and lifting his knees so Fenris would be able to see everything.  Reaching between his thighs, Zevran caressed his entrance slowly, pushing gently against the tight ring of muscles.  He heard Fenris's breathing change, growing shallow and fast as he watched his lover prepare himself.  Twisting his head to see Fenris’s avid expression, Zevran pushed one finger inside, moving it in slow thrusts to stretch himself.

 

He withdrew the finger to pour more oil into his hand and then inserted two fingers this time, probing even deeper.  Burning gave way to fullness, but it still wasn’t full enough.  Just as he was about to speak, another hand closed around his and gently removed his fingers.

 

"I would take you now.”  The deep voice was raspy with need, and the vial shook in Fenris's hand as he doused his cock with oil.  His eyes never left Zevran, the sight of those muscular tanned legs spread and raised for him, as he slowly stroked the lubrication over his glistening shaft.

 

"Please, _amor_."

 

Zevran pulled his knees back further, lifting his hips enticingly.  A growl accompanied the feel of Fenris's cock pressed against his entrance, and Zevran moaned in sheer anticipation.  He opened his mouth to beg again, but then Fenris pushed, and his words dissolved into a soft keen as his lover claimed him at last.

 

Fenris did not hesitate, seating himself deep before pausing, arms and shoulders trembling from the strain of holding back.  Zevran reached up and stroked the back of Fenris’s neck soothingly.

 

"It is good, Leto . . . better than good.  Do not be gentle.  I need all of you."

A low sound vibrated through Fenris's throat, and he pulled away to grasp Zevran’s knees.  The first few uncertain thrusts stuttered, but he quickly found his pace.  Zevran groaned as those slender hips began to snap back and forth.  He shifted slightly to improve the angle, and yes . . . _there_!  Zevran cried out as Fenris's cock slid over that spot and he felt his cock jerk hard in response.  Never shy about letting his lovers know his approval, Zevran voiced his ecstasy in a mixture of Antivan and Common.

 

"Yes, _mi querido_ , my lovely warrior, _es magnìfica_.  Do not stop . . . I wish to feel your warmth consume me, _amor_ . . . ."

 

He was floating, riding a tide of pure bliss, filled repeatedly with swollen heat.  It was so incredible, to just lay here and be taken, to submit to his lover's need while giving Fenris the kind of pleasure he had never received.  A low moan alerted him that Fenris was close, and he reached between them to grasp his own cock, slick and ultra-sensitive.

 

" _Sì_ , my Leto.  Fill me with your seed, your essence.  Bring us together."

 

Fenris slammed into him, throwing his head back as a fierce cry erupted from his taut throat.  Zevran felt the pulsing of Fenris's orgasm deep within and released his own yell as with only one stroke, he spurted his orgasm over his stomach.

 

###

 

It was nothing like the farce Danarius had put him through.  Even now when his heart had slowed and his skin had cooled, he felt no shame or pain.  Zevran had cleaned them both up with a wet rag and gentle caresses before settling back on the blankets to draw Fenris close.  The taller elf lay curled around Zevran, his head resting in the hollow of Zevran's shoulder while the assassin ran his fingers slowly through Fenris's hair.

 

He felt whole.  There was no other word to describe it.  Every ghost, every shadow of the past lurking in the corners of his psyche had been banished the moment Zevran had called him by his true name, asking Fenris to claim him.  For the first time in his short memory, he was at peace.

 

"Are you alright, _mi querido_?"

 

Fenris's lips stretched into a rare smile as he traced his fingers idly over the red string tied around Zevran's wrist.

 

"I am, yes.  Finally."

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's been a long time, but I'm back! I apologize for the long delay in updating, but I desperately needed a break. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story!
> 
> As a little reward for the long wait, go check out the portrait I commissioned for this story. The very talented Dragonreine did an awesome job, and you can see the picture here: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/A-Red-Promise-315543720. You might have to create a deviantart account to view it, but it's free. 
> 
> Again, thank you for sticking with me, and a special thank-you goes to Zevgirl, who continues to correct my mistakes even after all this time!

The murmur of voices woke Zevran from a dreamless sleep, the flicker of shadows on the canvas wall of the tent indicating dawn had not yet arrived.  Hot skin pressed against his back, and soft breaths tickled the nape of his neck.  He smiled, placing his hand over the calloused one resting on his hip.  A low grunt accompanied the sensual brush of hair on his neck as Fenris moved closer, nuzzling Zevran's shoulder, and slinging a leg over his thigh.  Unsure if Fenris was awake, Zevran traced his fingertips lightly over Fenris's knuckles, teasing the sensitive space between the fingers.

 

The blankets shifted behind him as Fenris nudged closer, bringing a persistent hardness in contact with Zevran's thigh.  They had both slept nude for the first time, Fenris now more comfortable with his sexuality.  Zevran was going to make a point of never going to bed clothed again with Fenris because, really, waking up like this was superb.  Not to mention the fact his ass felt deliciously sore and used in a way he had not experienced in far too long.

 

Fenris's cock pressed harder, and Zevran reached for the vial still lying near the bedroll.  Pouring some into his palm, he reached between his legs, leisurely oiling the inside of both thighs.  Fenris's breathing quickened, his tongue caressing Zevran's neck. Stretching his slick hand back, Zevran grasped the lovely cock inching into his crease and guided it between his thighs, squeezing his legs together to enclose it.

 

Fenris began to roll his hips slowly, and Zevran released a sigh of pleasure.  Such a glorious sensation:  Fenris's erection sliding wetly back and forth, grazing Zevran's sac with each thrust.  He allowed a moan to escape as teeth bit into his shoulder, followed by the rough slide of tongue.

 

"Yes . . . _gods, yes_."

 

Fenris's fingers tightened, gripping Zevran's hip with a bruising force, increasing the pace, tongue swirling relentlessly around the delicate ridges of Zevran's spine.  Needing to ground himself, Zevran reached back, twisting slightly to bury his fingers in Fenris's hair.  A gentle tug elicited a gasp, and Fenris buried his face against Zevran's back.

 

" _Venhedis_."

 

Fenris rose to his elbows and rolled over Zevran, bracing one hand on either side of his lover and pushing Zevran halfway to his stomach.  Having gained more leverage, he began to thrust in earnest, driving between Zevran's oiled thighs while lowering his head and nipping at the smooth skin where Zevran's shoulder joined his neck.  The assassin moaned and squeezed his legs to increase the pressure, reaching desperately for his own engorged cock trapped beneath him.

 

The small tent filled with sounds of panting, quickly escalating into harsh cries as first one and then the other found his release.  Slick come bathed Zevran's balls and thighs, with more wetting his stomach, but he reveled in the sensation, even going as far to dip his fingers between his legs to bring the taste of his lover to his lips.  Fenris rolled Zevran to his back and lowered his tongue to Zevran's abdomen, likewise exploring Zevran's juices.  Zevran laughed as the flicking tongue tickled his skin.

 

 

"Breakfast, _amor_?"

 

"Mmm."  Fenris raised sleepy, sated eyes to Zevran's gaze, and the assassin grinned at the mischief there.

 

"I suspect if we don't soon rise, there will be no breakfast left, unfortunately," said Zevran.  Fenris dipped his head to take a last lick before standing and stretching lazily.  Gods, but he was a sight:  skin flushed, hair mussed, glistening cock only beginning to soften.  Zevran wished fervently they were miles away from here, ensconced in a cozy inn with an entire day to explore each other's bodies.

 

They cleaned themselves off hastily and donned their armor.  Fenris insisted on helping Zevran braid his hair, and Zevran relaxed into the skilled fingers, enjoying the easy familiarity of Fenris's touch.  Before leaving the tent, he drew Fenris into a prolonged kiss, certain Fenris would shy away from him as soon as they joined the others.

 

So it was with barely hidden shock that he regarded Fenris when the warrior joined him by the fire with two bowls of grits, one of which he handed to Zevran.  He had expected Fenris to continue hiding their relationship, but Fenris sat nonchalantly beside him, shoulder to shoulder, digging hungrily into his bowl.  In his delight, Zevran didn't even notice the distasteful cold clumps of his cereal.

 

After a moment, he realized the campfire had grown oddly silent.  Glancing up, he discovered he and Fenris had somehow managed to attract the attention of every person sitting around the circle.  Varric was regarding them with lifted eyebrows while Isabela made no attempt to hide her smirk.  Hawke shifted her eyes back and forth between Zevran and Fenris, looking both curious and pleased.  Anders tightened his lips as if he might burst out laughing at any second.

 

Fenris finally raised his head and returned their stares with equanimity.

 

"What?"  He raised an eyebrow, assuming an expression of complete innocence.

 

"Honey," replied Isabela, "if you and Zevran had generated any more heat this morning, we wouldn't have needed a fire to cook this slop."  She grinned widely, giving Fenris a saucy wink.

 

Zevran stiffened, afraid that Fenris would once again flee.  He need not have worried.

 

"Indeed?"  Fenris returned her smile with a level gaze.  "I would advise you keep your distance from our tent then, unless you wish what little clothing you wear to be singed in the flames."

 

Varric hooted, slapping his knees.  "He's got you there, Rivaini."

 

Isabela's lips curled into a provocative leer.  "If you and Zevran allow me to watch, I will shred my clothes myself."

 

Fenris did not even blink.  "If you even try, your heart will pulse its last beat in my fist."

 

The entire group erupted in laughter, which Fenris completely ignored, returning his concentration to the grits.  Grinning like a maniac, Zevran rested his chin on his lover's shoulder.

 

"You, _mi querido_ , are simply amazing in more ways than I can count," he whispered.

 

Fenris turned to look at him, green eyes glittering with seriousness.  "You are mine.  I will no longer hide this."

 

Zevran gave him a long, measured look before deliberately leaning forward, engaging Fenris in a heated kiss.  When they broke apart breathlessly, ignoring the catcalls and whistles, Zevran whispered, "I love when you are so possessive."

 

He was rewarded with a wolfish smile.  "Then you won't mind wearing my mark for all to see."  At Zevran's confused expression, Fenris touched a vivid bruise on Zevran's neck.  Zevran ran his fingertips over the mark lovingly.

 

"Not at all, _mi amor_.  Not at all."  He went back to eating with renewed fervor, reflecting that life had been entirely too good to him lately.

 

###

 

The city of Ansburg nestled within the confluence of two MinanterRiver tributaries.  Surrounded on three sides by water, the city could only be approached by two routes:  from the north road winding through the highland plains of the city-state, or across the massive stone bridge traversing the western river.  The vast grasslands stretching north of Ansburg sloped gradually down to the Green Dales and were dotted with villages functioning more like plantations.  Grain was Ansburg's primary export, and the wide expanse of fields provided the perfect soil for crops.

 

If giant statues of suffering slaves gave Kirkwall its notoriety, then huge, ponderous water wheels were the signature of Ansburg.  Large mills lined the east and west boundaries of the city.  Grain from the plantations were brought to the city, processed at the mills, and then shipped down the Minanter to other city-states and Orlais.  All day and night, the tall water wheels turned in endless loops of productivity, the heavy creaking of damp wood groaning a timeless melody, largely ignored by residents and bitterly cursed by visitors trying to sleep.

 

Ansburg had barely survived the Second Blight and was totally destroyed during the Third.  When the Grey Wardens of Orlais and Tevinter succeeded in pushing back the darkspawn, the horde swept through the MinanterValley, ravaging most of the Free Marches and forcing survivors to flee to Antiva or Ferelden.  The Wardens ignored the plight of the Marchers, focusing on their own countries, and to this day, the eastern city-states of the Marches, having received the least amount of aid, hold a great antipathy toward Orlais and Tevinter.

 

Before the Third Blight, the Margreave lived in a small keep located near the southern river gate of Ansburg.  The Lord Margreave Dennison Garhalt ruled the city at the time of the Third Blight.  When the darkspawn descended upon Ansburg, he led the city guard in a short-lived battle against the horde while his people fled to safety.  He died a hero, and a statue of the esteemed gentleman now dominates the front courtyard of Ansburg's new fortress.

 

Dennison Garhalt's son, Pherron, escaped with his fellow Marchers and stayed in Antiva until the defeat of the Archdemon.  The son lacked the wisdom and charisma of his father, and upon his return to the remains of Ansburg, proceeded to alienate his people by focusing on his own needs rather than theirs.  The old keep had suffered only minor damage compared to the rest of the city, but Pherron declared it unfit for a Margreave and immediately funneled Ansburg's meager resources into building a new castle at the north gate.  Pherron gained no popularity during his selfish rule and was assassinated ten years after returning to his city.  The new Margreave decided to stay in the new keep and gifted the old one to the Chantry.  By the time of the Fourth Blight, the building had been designated the home of the Circle.

 

###

 

It was Zevran who suggested that the old keep, as did many residences of rulers, likely contained secret passages used for escape or private rendezvous.  The parchment Marian had obtained demonstrated none, but the sketch was only a hundred years old.  Upon reaching Ansburg, Hawke sent Isabela and Varric in search of blueprints made during the time of the Third Blight or earlier.  The mages and Dalish remained camped in the Evenlist while Isabela and Varric crossed the river and entered the city.  They returned after four days, Varric triumphant and Isabela sour-faced.

 

"I still don't see how you obtained the parchment before me," she complained as they entered Hawke's tent.  "I nearly had those librarians licking the palms of my hands!"  She narrowed her eyes at the dwarf, who laid the roll of paper on Hawke's rickety, wooden table with a flourish.  Marian, Anders, Fenris, Merrill, Berendil, and Zevran crowded around eagerly.

 

Varric crossed his arms and shot a smirk at Isabela.  "A real entrepreneur knows how to get what he wants, Rivaini.  I didn't even have to flirt to snag it."  He reached behind his shoulder to caress his crossbow.  "No worries, Bianca, my dear.  I've always been faithful."

 

Isabela rolled her eyes and bit back a retort as Marian raised her hand.

 

"Enough, you two.  Varric, what did you learn?"

 

Varric unrolled the parchment carefully.  Cracks bisected ink lines faded with time.

 

"The old keep is much smaller than Kirkwall's and made of the same white stone.  It lacks strong defenses.  Battlements over the main gate are flanked by two lookout towers, and that's about it.  Since there's no other entrances, I guess they figured only the front of the keep needed protection.  Other than the Blights, they haven't faced many attacks in Ansburg."

 

He gestured to various parts of the blueprint while continuing.  "The building is two stories, shaped like a cross with a tower at each corner.  The front towers are tall with arrow loops.  The back drum towers contain spiral stairs.  The entire structure is composed of one wall, except the drum towers which are concentric double barriers.  Weird, huh?"

 

"Most keeps are entirely double walled to prevent tunneling," said Fenris.

 

"Exactly," said Varric.  "I'm guessing they found it difficult to obtain stone in this area, so cut their costs by using only one wall.  Except those back towers. . . ."

 

". . . .which provide a perfect location to place secret passages," finished Zevran.

 

Varric snapped his fingers in agreement.  "You said it."  He pointed to a large rectangle behind the drawing of the keep.  "This building was used as the servants' and soldiers' quarters, but now it's the barracks for the Templars and mages.  There's one passage that runs underground from the barracks to the pantry in the back of the first floor of the keep, but it's pretty useless to us.  We'd have to move through the kitchen to the stairs, then up to the second floor, which is heavily guarded, of course.  That's where they're imprisoning the mages now."

 

"I thought they were being held in dungeon cells," said Anders.

 

"Nah," replied Varric.  "I think part of the story we've heard is exaggerated.  They may as well be in a dungeon though.  They're currently chained to each other and forced to sit against the walls of the central second floor room.  The templars won't even allow them to stand except during privy breaks.  Once a week, they get stripped down, taken outside, regardless of the weather, and the Templars douse them with water to wash away the grime."

 

Anders clenched his fists and bent over the table, eyes tightly shut and jaw held rigid.  Except for Zevran, everyone in the tent tensed, Marian laying a hand on Anders' arm anxiously.  She shot Fenris a glare as he reached for his sword, shaking her head in warning.  Abruptly, Anders straightened and reopened his eyes, relaxing.  Glancing around at their stares, he crossed his arms defensively.

 

"I'm fine!"

 

Zevran saw Fenris loosen his stance, but the tall elf kept a wary eye on Anders.  _Now what was that about, I wonder?_

 

Marian shifted her gaze back to Varric.  "So if we can't use the secret passage you mentioned, what do you suggest?"

 

"Ah, but I haven't finished explaining yet," said Varric, holding up a finger.  "You see, there's another passage.  The Templars know about the first, but they don't know about the second."

 

"If these tunnels are so secret, exactly how did you find out about them?"  Isabela asked, hands on hips.

 

"Well, Rivaini, while you were propositioning librarians, I was bribing servants.  It just so happens one of the steward's family has served the Margreave for hundreds of years.  He knows of a second passage running from the old second floor bedroom of the Margreave to an entrance within a thicket near the very river we crossed to Ansburg."

 

"An escape route," volunteered Fenris.

 

"And the parchment?  How did you get that?" asked Isabela.

 

"Did I forget to mention this servant has access to the keep's library?"  Varric leered at Isabela.  "Really now, my dear, no one unearths secrets like I do."

 

"But how did you get the servant to give you all this information?" said Hawke.  "Surely, they are loyal to the Templars."

 

"It was quite easy.  The servant's son is one of the mages being held captive."

 

"Ah."  Marian looked back to the drawing.  "So basically, we attack, and while we attack, Fenris, Zevran, and Isabela sneak in and free the mages.  Quite simple."  She grinned at them.

 

"Maybe to you," grumbled Fenris.

 

"You think we have a large enough army to overtake the keep?"  Merrill asked, skeptically.

 

"Our intent isn't to conquer but to free the mages," replied Hawke.  "We should be able to keep the Templars and city guards busy long enough for our rescue team to get them out."

 

"And then?"  Fenris raised an eyebrow.

 

"And then we melt back into the Evenlist," said Marian.  "The Dalish know the forest well and will have the advantage if any of the Templars decide to follow."

 

Fenris sighed and crossed his arms, glaring at the parchment.  When he offered no further rebuttal, Hawke nodded and rolled up the paper.

 

"I'll gather our army tonight and explain the plan.  We'll check out the location of the thicket entrance tomorrow and attack on the following day.  I don't want to linger here for long.  The longer we stay, the more likely we are to get caught."

 

###

 

It took four days to attack.  The passage had been reinforced with stone, but time had eroded the walls, and several cave-ins needed to be cleared.  The section of tunnel under the river was damp and fragile, but Varric guessed it would hold.  Lugging buckets of rocks out of the tunnel, Fenris overheard this and growled, "Easy for him to say.  He doesn't have to travel through it."

 

Anxious, Hawke helped with the debris removal, ordering everyone to take a shift.  The camp's proximity to Ansburg weighed heavily on her mind.  It took only one Marcher wandering into the forest to ruin their plan.  The Dalish kept sharp eyes on the perimeter from their positions high among the trees, bows always at the ready.

 

Perhaps Fen'Harel liked their plan.  No intruders entered the Evenlist.  With the passage finally cleared, the army made ready for the following day.  Excitement sparked through the mages, and Fenris felt their presence even more as they strengthened their bond to the Fade in preparation.  Barely able to tolerate the constant prickling of his lyrium tattoos, Fenris retired to the edge of camp, where the distance brought much-needed relief.

 

He was sitting against a gnarled, ancient tree sharpening his sword when Zevran emerged from the darkness, barely lit by magelight.  Hawke had forbidden fires; smoke made a poor friend when secrecy was desired.  Zevran sank into the moss next to Fenris and drew out his whetstone and daggers.

 

"Seeking solitude, _mi amigo_?"

 

Fenris glanced up before resuming the rhythmic swipe of his whetstone against steel.

 

"Only from mages.  Their sorcery is at a high tonight."

"They are excited at the chance to finally fight for their beliefs," mused Zevran.  "I have come to understand those beliefs are not yours."

 

"They are not," affirmed Fenris.  He sighed and set the whetstone down.  "These mages have never seen the consequence of using magic to do harm.  They do not yet know the temptation because the templars have prevented them from knowing.  They have not lived in Tevinter."

 

Zevran was silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully into the camp.  "And what of Anders?  Forgive me if I'm wrong, but everyone walks around him much as a hunter eases his way around the lair of a mother bear."

 

A low growl rumbled from the depths of Fenris's chest.  "Anders is an abomination.  He should not have been allowed to live.  The demon within him could erupt at any time, and he cannot control it."  He picked up a tattered rag and began to polish his blade.  "Hawke loves him, and thus, she is blind."

 

"Love is often blind," said Zevran.  "But it also allows one to see the good alongside the bad.  Love is quite the enigma.  It is why I have struggled to elude it for so long, only to find it is what I have truly needed all these years."

 

Fenris raised his head, emerald eyes picking out the silhouette of other elf.  But Zevran fell silent, bowing his head and picking up the whetstone.  The harsh, metallic scrape of stone against metal once again interrupted the night.  After a few moments, he continued the conversation.

 

"Anders saved my life and appears to care for his friends.  Perhaps the man in him can overcome the spirit.  Perhaps he can continue to offer his people hope."

 

Fenris merely grunted in response.  He had lived too long with Danarius to retain any hope in mages.  Justice had remained absent since the explosion of the Chantry in Kirkwall, but Fenris would be ready if the demon reappeared.

 

"Hope is a fleeting thing, not to be counted on."  He retrieved his whetstone, but before he could strike his sword, a strong hand closed over his.

 

"Hope is all these people have . . . all many people have.  Did not hope lead you to freedom?  Did not hope lead me to you?"

 

Fenris could barely discern the glint of amber only inches from his face, but the intensity did not elude him.  Careful with the claws on his gauntlet, he grasped Zevran's shirt and pulled the assassin down into a straddling position on Fenris's lap.  A smile lifted the corner of his mouth as heard a faint hitch in breath.

 

"I have often allowed my past to cloud my reason."  He reached up and trailed three spiked fingers across the tattoo adorning Zevran's cheek.  "And you _are_ here.  It is possible for me to be wrong."

 

Heated breath and the barest touch of full lips grazed his mouth.  "I don't think either of us is wrong about _this_."

 

Fenris surged forward, capturing the words with his tongue as he claimed Zevran's mouth for his own.  A cool breeze whispered past, but neither noticed amidst the fire engulfing them, cleansing any bitterness remaining from the cruel years of long ago.  As Zevran deepened the kiss, Fenris tasted just a tang of the hope that died the same day as Danarius and his sister.  Perhaps hope lived still, in the person of a devious Crow and the red string circling his slim wrist.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elvish language in this chapter is taken from the Dragon Age Wiki. Many thanks to Zevgirl for being my lifesaver!

The tunnel carried the scent of time, of rot and decay, sour and pungent.  Clumps of mold formed a fuzzy mosaic along the dirt walls, and the stone beams glistened with moisture seeping from the river above.  The torch Isabela held cast elongated shadows, stretching and twisting into the darkness ahead.  Zevran and Fenris followed, daggers and sword drawn.  The rush of water failed to drown the skittering whispers of rats darting between the beams.

 

"If this passage does collapse, we won't lack food at least," said Isabela, kicking at a curious rodent blocking her path.

 

"If it collapses, I shall break the dwarf's beloved crossbow," muttered Fenris.

 

Isabela whirled around, shocked.  "You would destroy the love of Varric's life?  His heart and soul?  Do you have a death wish?"

 

"Keep moving, my dear," said Zevran.  He slapped her behind with the flat of his blade.  "Lingering here is a death wish."

 

"Not to mention Hawke is probably attacking the keep as we speak," said Fenris.  "We don't have much time to take advantage of her distraction."

 

"I'm moving, I'm moving," grumbled Isabela.  "Really, I was hoping the two of you would use this mission for a little playtime."  She threw a smirk over her shoulder as her leather boots once more picked up the pace.

 

From behind Zevran, a low growl reverberated through the tunnel, temporarily scattering any nearby rats.  Zevran chuckled, repressing a smile.

 

"I, for one, deem it wise to respect a wolf's privacy.  They can be quite territorial, _mi amiga_."

 

"And who has tamed who more, Zevran?"  Isabela's voice grew coy.  "The wolf or the crow?"

 

Zevran opened his mouth to respond, but a deep voice interrupted.

 

"Enough talk and more walking.  This place smells like piss."

 

Isabela laughed as she glanced at the muddy floor.  "And you're walking barefoot through it all, Fenris."  A grunt was her only response, but Zevran was willing to bet his favorite boots Fenris was hiding a smile.

 

At least, the conversation helped to distract them from the loose dirt continually raining down on their heads.  In spite of the cool dampness, Zevran felt a bead of sweat trickle between his shoulder blades.  The age of the tunnel weighed heavily on his mind, and he sincerely hoped he would not meet his end underground with a lungful of moldy soil.  _This is worse than the Deep Roads,_ he surmised.  _There, I can die with the blood of an enemy on my blade, not drown in putrefying mud._

 

Only a short time later, the rush of the river faded, and the slime beneath their feet dried.  Isabela came to a halt at the bottom of a narrow stairway formed by worn stone blocks sunk into the dirt.  Zevran and Fenris waited as she climbed up, following the steep passage as it turned a sharp left.  Shadows flickered on the crumbling wall as she held the torch above her head.

 

"A trapdoor.  Wanna bet it's locked?"  A muffled rattling was accompanied by chunks of dirt falling from the ceiling.  Zevran winced, examining the low ceiling with trepidation.  "Yep.  Locked.  Of course."  Isabela's face popped around the corner, glaring at the two elves.  "Now what?"

 

"Allow me."

 

Fenris strode forward and beckoned Isabela aside.  She slid sideways down the stairs, unabashedly brushing her breasts across his chest as he sidled past.  A triumphant smirk lit her face for a mere second before Fenris grasped her wrist in a tight vise.  Whipping her head around, she gave him an aggrieved pout as he grabbed her torch.

 

"No need to be quite so rough, Fenris.  I'm always _willing_ , you know."

 

"I need your torch," Fenris hissed through clenched teeth.  He released her hand, ignoring her wince of pain as she rubbed the offended wrist.  She glowered at Zevran, but he only shrugged and followed Fenris up the steps.

 

The rustic trapdoor creaked when Fenris pushed it.  He breathed in deeply, his markings flaring bright, bathing the dark stairwell in a blue glow.  Zevran had not witnessed Fenris's power since the fight against Nuncio, and his eyes widened in delight as Fenris slipped a transparent arm through the wood.  The rest of his body faded into its ghost state as Fenris felt for the latch on the other side and released it.

 

"Beautiful," whispered Zevran, awed at the sight of his lover, muscles delineated with fluorescent light.

 

Startled, Fenris glanced back at him, and the glow faded, eclipsed by torchlight.  Flushing, he shoved on the trapdoor once more, opening it easily.  After pulling himself up, he assisted Zevran and Isabela into a new tunnel.  This one narrowed into a spiral stairwell, lined with white stone.

 

"We are within the drum tower," murmured Zevran.  "Hopefully, most of the templars are now outside fighting Hawke, but we should be as silent as thieves."  He took the torch from Fenris and led the climb up the steps, grinning back over his shoulder.  "Or assassins, if you prefer."

 

They climbed carefully, Zevran holding the torch down by his legs so they could see the steps.  Like many spiral staircases in keeps, the steps were uneven, made to slow down ascending attackers.  The darkness was absolute.  No arrow loops lined these walls.  If a battle raged outside, they heard nothing, the cold stone absorbing all sound.

 

After enough steps to cause cramps in their thighs, Zevran paused.  The other two crowded behind him to see a wooden panel blocking their path.  Handing the torch to Isabela, Zevran ran his palms over the barrier from top to bottom but found nothing.  Turning to his companions, he mimicked sliding the panel to the side.  They nodded, drawing their weapons, even as Zevran drew his.

 

The wood squeaked loudly as Zevran drew it aside, only to find another obstruction, some type of furniture.  Zevran grimaced and glanced back at Fenris, raising his eyebrows.  With a perfunctory nod, Fenris stepped forward, slipping into transparency with a bright flash.  Sword drawn, he slipped through the obstacle as if it were made of air.

 

A loud clunk came from the other side, followed by shouts.  Fenris's deep bass rumbled beneath the clash of metal, but his words were indecipherable.

 

" _Mierda_ ," hissed Zevran, pushing frantically against the heavy wood preventing them from aiding Fenris.  Helplessly, he and Isabela could only listen as the cries and scrape of sword against armor gave evidence of the battle on the other side.

 

After many anxious moments, silence fell.  Zevran stepped back uncertainly just as the barrier was shoved aside, lighting the dark passage in blue ambience.  Fenris moved back, gesturing them forward.  Zevran's attention went first to the warrior, roving his eyes carefully over bloodied leather.  A nasty laceration slashed down one shoulder, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.  Only then, as he entered the room, did he realize he had been holding his breath.

 

As Varric had suggested, they were in a sparsely furnished bedroom.  The furniture concealing the passage was a ponderous armoire, worn and aged but still whole.  A sagging bed occupied one wall, while the wall opposite opened into a crude privy.  A heavily armored body lay crumbled next to the privy, blood seeping from the helm.  Another body sprawled across the bed, soaking threadbare sheets in crimson.

 

“You are able to pass through anything?” asked Zevran.

 

“Not anything,” replied Fenris.  “I can only enter a ghost-like state for a few seconds, and it takes a great deal of energy.  I will be unable to draw on my lyrium for a while.”

 

Isabela flicked her hair carelessly over her shoulder, assessing the scene.

 

"Only two, Fenris?" she scoffed.

 

The tall elf shot her an incredulous look, and then shook his head as he led the way from the bedroom, bare feet slapping the floor in obvious disdain.

 

They stopped in the doorway to the next area.  The large, square room contained only a small table in the center with a few chairs pushed back from it.  Along every wall sat a row of men and women, wearing worn, dirtied gray robes.  Heavy chains linked each mage to his or her neighbor, binding wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle.  At the end of each line, the chain was fastened to a massive stone block.

 

Fenris took in the emaciated faces slowly turning toward him.  He knew those faces, had borne the same dull, hopeless expression once upon a time.  _They never expected to make it out of here_.  A burning nausea clawed its way up his gut, and he stepped forward, ignoring the foul odor greeting his nose.

 

"Who is in charge here?"  Several of the mages flinched at his brusque tone, cringing back against the walls.

 

"The templars, I would imagine."

 

Fenris traced the words to a tall, bald man sporting a gray goatee.  He sat with knees bent, arms resting listlessly at his sides.  "Although it seems you've gotten rid of the two who were watching us."

 

"Which of you is the First Enchanter?"

 

"I am," replied the man.  "Or was."

 

"Where are the keys to your chains?"

 

"The guards usually carried them."  Bemused, the First Enchanter stared down at his wrists, and then let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes.  No one else spoke.

 

Isabela disappeared back into the bedroom to search the guards while Fenris began to check the other rooms on the floor.  Zevran had noticed a flash of green in the far corner and approached a diminutive woman wearing Dalish clothing.  Intricate tattoos swirled around her left eye, and a long, gray braid lay over one shoulder.  Zevran went down on one knee, slightly bowing his head.

 

" _Adaran atish'an, Mamae._ Are you the Keeper of the Darael clan?"

 

" _Emma, falon,"_ said the woman.  "My name is Ahrhien.  But how did you know this?"

 

"We met your clan on the way here," replied Zevran.  "They have come with us to find you."

 

Ahrhien looked past him to Fenris and Isabela, who were now unlocking the chains.  Zevran shook his head.

 

"Not here.  They fight beside mages outside, to distract the templars while we free all of you."

 

The First Enchanter had been listening.

 

"So that's where the other guards went.  I had wondered why they left so suddenly, but it seemed to mean little for us."  He nodded to Isabela as she removed a manacle from his ankle.  "It is good of you to come for us, but I'm afraid we are able to offer you little aid."  He drew a shaky hand over his face.  "We have been starved, beaten, and every day, they cast Smite on us.  We are weak without our magic."  He lifted his eyes slowly to meet Zevran's.  "We had given up hope."

 

"Whatever strength you still have, you must muster," said Zevran, standing.  "It is a long way to safety, and we cannot carry you."  He turned to Isabela.  " _Mi amiga,_ I believe it would be best to take these people out through the passage.  They will not last five minutes in battle."

 

Isabela narrowed her eyes.  "I'm guessing you want _me_ to take them back?"

 

"Ah, I knew you would be so kind!"  Zevran patted her cheek.  "Never fear.  You will be remembered always as the Savior of Ansburg.  Think of the stories Varric shall tell!"

 

"Oh, go stick it up a darkspawn's arse," she muttered under her breath.  Spearing the nearest mages with a glare, she gestured toward the bedroom impatiently.  "Well, come on then, you lot!  Hope you don't mind small spaces and mud!"

 

As the mages filed out, Ahrhien approached.  "I do not derive my power from the Fade, as the mages do.  The templars' Smite had no effect on me, but I could not hope to fight them all at once.  I can, however, be of some aid now."

 

Fenris eyed her with distrust, but Zevran smiled warmly.  "Your help would be most appreciated, Keeper.  We mean to join the mages and Dalish outside . . . help them retreat into the Evenlist."

 

"Then let's go.  We waste time here."  The petite elf brushed past Fenris and Zevran, heading for the stairs.  Fenris raised an eyebrow at her curtness, then proceeded to follow her down.  Zevran watched the last of the mages file into the bedroom before hurrying after Fenris.

 

###

 

In battle, time flowed differently.  You measured it in the pounding of your heart, the ache of your sword arm, and the number of men who fell at your feet.  You did not think, you acted.  Either your instinct was enough or it was not.  There was no room for strategy, no time to plan.  If you did not know the dance, strategy could not save you anyway.

 

Zevran knew the dance and knew it well.  Even as he, Fenris, and Ahrhien fled the abandoned keep into the midst of screams and the clamor of swords, he was already slipping into the surreal mindset that allowed one to set the world aside and focus on survival.  Every sense surged:  the taste the blood, the stench of sweat, the burn of over stretched muscles, the grunts of adrenaline, the sun flashing on raised steel.  Through it all flew death, borne on the last sighs of the dead, the last pulse of blood through torn flesh.

 

As the first templar turned to face him, Zevran bared his teeth into a victorious hiss as his boot connected with the templar's elbow, striking the sensitive nerve.  The templar yelped as numb fingers released the sword.  Zevran took the opportunity to slip his dagger into the armpit seam, and the man dropped, thrashing.

 

The templar's cry had alerted those nearby, and a large, burly man swung a two-handed sword toward Zevran's neck hard enough to carry him forward with the momentum.  Zevran ducked, bashing the templar's kneecap with the hilt of his dagger as the sword whistled above.  The man stumbled backward, dropping his sword as Fenris leaped forward, sinking his blade into the enemy's belly.  As he drew back, the blue glow of a protective ward surrounded them, emanating from Ahrhien's staff.

 

The three of them slowly worked their way across the field to where Hawke's army fought, their backs against the forest.  Zevran allowed Fenris to lead, observing the warrior's tactics and adjusting his own attacks to complement Fenris's.  The silver-haired elf wielded the Blade of Mercy as if it weighed no more than a stick, slashing in huge arcs to knock down the Templars.  Zevran darted forward, finishing them off with a well-placed stroke, usually through a seam in the armor.

 

When Fenris pushed through two templars, he finally caught sight of Hawke.  With a yell, he countered one of the templar's blades, pushing hard and using his lyrium to boost his strength.  The man fell back, trampled by a horse fleeing Ahrhien's magic.  Zevran leaped on the other templar's back while the man was rushing toward Fenris, slitting his throat.  Hawke glanced over at the commotion, smiling when she saw them.

 

Raising her staff, she began to scream at her army to fall back.  The word spread quickly down the line, and the mages began to retreat toward the forest where the Dalish waited among the trees.  The templars surged forward, their confidence bolstered at the sight of mages falling back.  With cries of prayer to Andraste, they pursued the mages, only to halt in chaos as arrows rained upon them from the trees.

 

"Quickly!  Get back!" yelled Hawke, rushing back and forth while shoving the fleeing mages deeper into the Evenlist.  Zevran and Fenris followed, covering the retreat with the Dalish pulling up the rear.  The Dalish, thrilled to see their Keeper, howled in victory, muting the screams of the dying and shouts of the templars.

 

Zevran leaped over the body of a dead mage, his eyes quickly scanning the trees for oncoming enemies.  His boots pounded over a deer trail and into a thicket, skidding to an abrupt halt as he nearly ran face first into spiky, black leather.  An awful smell assaulted his nose.

 

"Fenris?"  When the other elf did not move or speak, Zevran stepped around him, taking in the grim sight.

 

The stench obviously belonged to the dead templar laying at Fenris's feet.  The man's helm was open, exposing a blackened cheek.  The metal of his armor had a tarnished surface from extreme heat.  Further on, he saw Hawke bent over another body, this one clothed in a blue, feathered jacket.

 

They both approached Hawke slowly, as if delaying a closer inspection might render the scene delusory.  She glanced up as they stopped beside her, eyes streaming with tears.

 

"I _can't_.  All my lyrium is gone, and I was never as good a healer as Anders."  She bowed her head, grasping Anders's hand desperately.  "He should have kept running instead of taking on that templar, the stupid man . . . ."

 

"He's still alive?" asked Zevran, kneeling next to Hawke.

 

"Not for much longer," she choked.  She stroked Anders's cheek, but he remained unconscious.  She indicated a quickly spreading crimson stain on Anders's jacket.  "The templar got close enough to spear him through.  I can't close the wound."

 

Zevran opened the jacket and grimaced.  Hawke was right.  No man could survive this.  He looked up at Fenris, surprised to find the other elf gazing blankly into the distance.  Well, he knew of Fenris's extreme dislike of Hawke's lover.  _Can't expect him to be saddened_.  Which was why he was deeply surprised when Fenris finally knelt with a sigh, holding out his hand to Hawke.

 

"Use me."

 

Hawke jerked her head toward Fenris in confusion.  "What?"

 

"Use my lyrium.  You can tap into it.  Danarius did when he lacked potions."  Fenris refused to meet her eyes, staring instead at the grass between his toes.

 

"Fenris, I couldn't do that!  Would it . . . would it hurt you?"  Her face lit with hope.

 

"It is tolerable.  Just do it."

 

Zevran observed Fenris's expression and was not convinced, but before he could speak, Hawke had closed her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration.  Fenris's tattoos flared incandescently.

 

"Oh!" exclaimed Hawke.  "So much lyrium . . . ."  She laid her free hand over Anders's wound, murmuring something too soft for Zevran to hear.  A blue glow began to emanate from Anders's body, pulsing slowly under Hawke's guidance.

 

At first, the power exchange seemed innocuous enough.  Fenris's eyes were tightly shut, his jaw clenched.  He seemed to be focusing on assisting Hawke.  Watching intently, Zevran soon noticed a change in Anders, a growing flush to previously too-pale skin.  The bleeding ceased to spread.  _It's working_ , thought Zevran with satisfaction.  Then he glanced back at Fenris and froze.

 

Fenris was not focusing.  He was in pain.  Rivulets of sweat streaked his temples, both hands clenched so tight his nails drew blood.  The lyrium in his skin pulsed in rhythm with the glow surrounding Anders.  While Anders was regaining a healthy color, Fenris was turning white as a sheet.  Alarmed, Zevran clasped Fenris's shoulder, but the other elf did not appear to notice.

 

Zevran leaned over Anders to inspect the wound, glad to see it was beginning to close.  He was reaching for Hawke's hand when suddenly, Fenris collapsed.  His back arched sharply as if seizing, then he went still.  Zevran had had enough.

 

" _Hawke_!"  When she did not respond, he grabbed her hand and yanked it from Fenris's.  "Stop now!"

 

She shivered, opening her eyes slowly.  Dazed, she looked down at Anders, running her palm over the closed wound in wonder.

 

"He's alive.  It was enough."  Pressing a fist to her mouth, she choked back a sob, curling in on herself.

 

Zevran ignored her, rolling Fenris to his back with shaky hands.

 

"Fenris?"

 

He felt for a pulse, and thank the gods, there was one.  He patted his lover's cheek with no response.

 

Suddenly, Marian was there, kneeling beside him.

 

"Blessed Andraste, what did I do to him?"  She ran her hands lightly over Fenris's body, assessing him with her magic.  After a time, she rocked back on her heels, biting her lower lip.

 

"He's in shock, and his body's under a great deal of stress.  He doesn't appear to be in immediate danger, however."  She raked her fingers through her hair.  "What have I done?"  She looked at Zevran.  "Can you help me carry him?  We can't stay here.  The templars may be on us at any second."

 

"I can carry him," Zevran said.  _I will carry him for as far as my heart can take him_.

 

A rustle caught their attention, and they looked over to see Anders sitting up.

 

"Marian?"

 

She grabbed his hand, helping him to stand.

 

"I know you're weak, love, but I need you to walk a bit now.  We need to move, and Zevran has to carry Fenris."

 

"Carry Fenris?  Is he injured?"  Anders ran his hand over his bloodstained coat.  "Did you heal me?  I feel wonderfully refreshed . . . ."

 

"Not now, Anders.  We need to go!"

 

Zevran leaned over, heaving Fenris into his arms.  The unconscious elf was all sinewy muscle but carrying him long distance was not going to be fun.  The way his head leaned against Zevran's shoulder, however, moved something inside Zevran just enough that he knew he would have the strength.

 

He followed the two mages from the thicket, Anders leaning slightly on Marian's arm.  All around, the forest echoed with distant shouts while green-clad, bow-wielding elves leaped through the trees, the last of the Dalish vanishing into the Evenlist.  One last ululating cry soared overhead, a final flaunt of victory in the face of Andraste.

 


	10. Chapter 10

The moon had long since risen, yet the sounds of laughter and celebration continued.  For the past several days, the mages and Dalish had mourned their dead as they traveled night and day to put distance between the templars and themselves.  A small fraction of Hawke’s mages had died, and even fewer Dalish.  Only one mage from Ansburg had not survived the journey.  Today, they had reached the Dalish settlement, and mourning turned to victory as the Keeper joined her clan.  Tonight, they celebrated; tomorrow, work would begin to dismantle the camp.  Hawke and her group would return north to their base.  The Dalish would move on to an undisclosed location.

 

Zevran did not join the party.  He had assisted others with pulling the sledge on which Fenris lay and now sat beside him in their tent at the Dalish camp.  Fenris had not stirred since his collapse.  Having coaxed some elfroot and water down his throat, Anders checked him over thoroughly, but he found nothing to explain Fenris's coma-like state.

 

"Explain what you did again," he had said to Marian earlier as the two hovered over Fenris with furrowed brows.  Zevran stood back, arms crossed but silent.

 

"It was like drawing from a bottomless pit of lyrium," replied Marian.  She ran a shaky hand over face, remembering.  "There was just so much power.  He offered everything he had.  I wasn't even paying attention to how it affected him.  Healing you was my priority, and it was so _easy_ with all that lyrium."  She bowed her head, clenching her fists.  "I didn't even know when to stop.  If it weren't for Zevran . . . ."

 

"I still can't believe he did that for me," said Anders, softly.  "He hates me."

 

"Perhaps Fenris feels more than he reveals, even to me," said a soft, lilting voice.  Marian and Anders glanced over at Zevran, having forgotten he was even there.

 

"Perhaps."  Anders stroked his chin, looking down at Fenris.  "I always hoped we would reach some kind of compromise, but he never . . . ."  He shook his head.  "Never mind.  I'm going to go check on the other injured."

 

As he left, Zevran resumed his seat beside Fenris, pulling a blanket over the other elf.  Marian crouched next to him, sighing.

 

"Never again," she whispered.  Her gaze caught Zevran's.  "This, I swear."

 

"You owe me no promises, Lady Hawke.  Your intentions were good.  No harm was meant."

 

"Nevertheless."  She stood.  "I have some bad news for you, Zevran.  A messenger from my home base arrived here yesterday.  There are people looking for you near the camp.  I'm told they are Crows."

 

Zevran nodded slowly.  "They always catch up eventually."  He raised understanding eyes to hers.  "They endanger your camp as well.  If they find me, they find you."

 

She nodded, grimacing.  "You've been a great help, Zevran, but . . . ."

 

"But it is time for me to move on, yes?"  He flashed a wry smile.  "Do not feel guilty, _mi amiga_.  I do not wish to wait for their attack, either."

 

"I have one last request of you."  At Zevran's questioning look, she gestured to Fenris.  "Take him with you."

 

Zevran opened his mouth, but she held up her hand.  "I will not allow myself to be tempted again, Zevran.  Nor will I allow anyone else in this company to harm him.  I can see now, more than ever, why he fears mages."  Her face softened.  "Besides, he needs you, even if he won't admit it.  I've seen how he is with you, Zevran.  Not even to me has he ever opened up so much."  She sighed, swinging her arm around.  "And this?  This was never his cause.  He came for my sake, but he doesn't belong here."

 

For a long pause, Zevran sat motionless.  Then he reached out to take Fenris's hand in his.  "If he will come, I will take him, my Lady.  The choice must be his."

 

Marian nodded.  Her tattered robes swished around her ankles as she exited the tent, leaving the two elves alone.  Since then, Zevran had remained at Fenris's side, even when Aris invited him to dinner.  The Dalish elf politely brought him a bowl of stew, for which Zevran thanked him, careful to send no flirtatious signal.  Aris seemed to understand, vanishing quickly without a word.

 

After eating, Zevran set the bowl aside and moved his bedroll beside Fenris.  Curling up next to his lover, he hummed quietly to himself, remembering Fenris had recognized the tune as a Tevinter lullaby.  Had Zevran's mother once lived in Tevinter?  The thought followed him into the Fade, drifting away as wisps of dreams drew him further into sleep.

 

###

 

He was watching the sunlight glint on the waters of RialtoBay, feeling the salt spray on his bare skin, when he felt the other man move behind him.  He did not need to look to know who stood there on the balcony with him or whose skin brushed against his own.  One hand reached for his hip while the other brushed his hair to one side.  He closed his eyes, smiling as warm lips caressed his neck.

 

"Awake already, _mi amor_?"

 

"Mmm."  As always, his companion did not waste words.  Not when actions could speak instead.

 

The hand on his hip dipped lower, and Zevran arched lazily, uncaring of their exposed position on the balcony.  No weapon lay within his reach, for he needed none here in their home, where trust existed as it did nowhere else.

 

"Shall we go inside or would you have me bend over the railing right here?"

 

Fingernails scraped lightly up the inside of his thigh, and he shivered in the breeze coming off the bay.

 

"First, say you're mine."

 

Goosebumps rose on his skin at the dangerous undertone in the command.  This was his companion at his finest:  possessive, dominant, completely unyielding.  It was more than foreplay; it was a promise.

 

"Always," he whispered, as the sun flared incandescent, blinding him in a cloud of white.  The warm embrace was torn away, leaving him bereft and aching, reaching for a last thread of memory before the tidal wave of reality washed him ashore.

 

At first, Zevran did not understand what had awakened him.  All was quiet.  The fires outside were still lit, flickering faintly through the tent's canvas walls.  Then he turned his head to find emerald eyes glittering only inches away.

 

Zevran shot upright, tucking his loose hair behind his ears.

 

"Leto?"  He searched Fenris's face for any sign of pain.

 

"I'm fine."  Fenris turned his head slowly to the entrance flap.  "It is night.  How long have I been unconscious?" 

 

"Five days," replied Zevran.  He reached for the jug of water resting nearby and poured Fenris a cup.  "We have returned to the Dalish camp."

 

Fenris sat up and took the cup with surprisingly steady hands.  "The mission was successful?"

 

" _Sì_.  Only one Circle mage perished, and our losses were minimal."

 

"And Anders?"  Shrewd eyes peered at Zevran over the cup.

 

"He's fine.  Thanks to you," said Zevran.  He took the empty cup from Fenris, setting it aside before straddling the other elf's lap.  Gently, he ran a thumb along Fenris's jaw, reassured by the warm skin that had previously been cold.  "You had us very worried, _mi querido_."

 

Fenris lay back wearily, slipping from Zevran's touch.  "It is normal for me to be . . . incapacitated . . . after allowing a mage to use my lyrium.  My body needs time to recover."

 

Zevran's tone was sharp.  "You should not allow yourself to be _used_ at all.  You might have died."

 

"Yes, it is a risk."  Fenris stared stonily at the roof above.

 

Which was why he did not see the hand coming at his cheek until it connected _hard_.  Stunned, he rubbed at it, looking askance at the very angry blond leaning over him, hands on either side of Fenris's chest.

 

"Do you think playing with death is a game?  Do you think your life is worth less than Anders' that you would casually throw it about like chattel?  I have been there, my friend, where the next step doesn't matter because life has grown cold and gray.  And I had no one who cared to show me different.  But _you_ —!"

 

Zevran stopped, closing his eyes, although the tremors in his arms betrayed his agitation.  Fenris remained frozen below him, shocked into silence.

 

"What you did was noble," murmured Zevran, "but nobility is _terribly_ overrated.  Especially where your life is concerned."  He bowed his head, the fury draining from his slumped form as suddenly as it had appeared.

 

Fenris understood several things then.  First, Zevran was not truly angry with him, but at his ability to feel fear for another.  Second, there were certain words he would probably never hear from the assassin or say himself.  Third, he did not need to hear them.  And last, it wasn't Danarius's death that had set him free.

 

His arm moved of its own accord, burying trembling fingers in fine, golden hair.  Zevran moved fluidly, spreading his body over Fenris like a blanket.  His tongue claimed Fenris's mouth, demanding, and Fenris yielded.  Zevran was certainly as experienced as Isabela hinted, his lips and tongue enough to bring Fenris to aching hardness sooner than he would have thought possible.

 

The aching intensified as Zevran slowly removed Fenris's pants and smallclothes, his skin flashing hot and cold at each deliberate caress from Zevran's talented fingers.  When Zevran stood to remove his own clothing, Fenris struggled to breathe, his eyes devouring each inch of exposed skin.  Shadows of flames from the campfires outside danced wickedly across the smooth expanse of tanned flesh, flickering in amber of eyes full of promise.

 

Then the tawny, lithe body was upon him, and _oh_ , he could not control the lift of his hips rising to meet it.  If ever anyone had touched him like this, with such reverence and care, neither his mind nor his senses could remember it.  He released the chains of his self-control, casting them aside as waves of fresh sensation lapped over his body, washing him clean.  Sounds burst from his throat . . . sounds he had never heard before.  He writhed under the clever tongue and questing fingers on his skin.

 

A single moment of clarity brought him back, a sudden jerk as an oiled finger caressed his hole, but then that finger started to move in ways that had him arching mindlessly, legs spreading, begging with their openness.  He barely felt the penetration, just a sudden burn, and then he was clutching the edges of the bedroll, head thrown back, neck taut while fragments of words tumbled carelessly from lips stretched wide in ecstasy.

 

There was no thought of Danarius or any of the mages to whom his master had given him.  There simply was not enough room for anything other than Zevran, who was entering him with more gentleness than Fenris had thought possible from a former Crow.  Zevran paused when finally seated within, lowering his head to bestow the sweetest of kisses, richer than chocolate.  With wide, fever-bright eyes, Fenris gripped the shoulders of his lover, whispering the only word that made sense.

 

" _Please_."

 

Ah, the gloriousness of it!  Zevran obeyed with alacrity, withdrawing and then slamming forward with all the force of his honed muscles.  This was no mindless drive; however, Zevran knew exactly what he was doing.  Every snap of his hips was aimed perfectly, every drag backward exquisite.  And Fenris was hopelessly and irrevocably lost.

 

His spine tightened.  His thighs trembled.  Every force within spiraled helplessly into a powerful knot low in his gut.

 

"Stroke yourself, _mi amor_."

 

_Venhedis_ , how had he forgotten?  Desperately, he fisted his cock, squeezing as Zevran pounded harder.  His skin was aflame, his mind insensate with pleasure.  It took every effort to open his eyes, watching as Zevran threw his head back and bared his teeth, slamming into Fenris with the very force of his heart.

 

And he felt it . . . life.  Life, pulsing and pouring into his body as Zevran came with an exultant cry.  His skin burst, too fragile to hold it all in, and he screamed from a throat raw with triumph as everything exploded into blinding white rapture.

 

###

 

The fires outside burned low but still provided enough light for Zevran to see the raised brands of silver on Fenris's abdomen.  He traced them idly with his forefinger while resting his head on his lover's shoulder, sated and content.  His scalp prickled pleasantly as Fenris carded his loose hair between calloused fingers.

 

They had not spoken since recovering from their aftershocks and cleaning up.  Instead, they had simply curled together, lightly exploring each other's skin without any real intent.  Zevran frowned slightly over the prominence of Fenris's ribs, grunting softly in disapproval.  A rumbling chuckle answered him from the chest beneath his cheek.

 

"I have been unconscious for several days.  My weight will return once I eat properly."

 

"I will ask Hawke if we can take some of her supplies when we leave.  We can forage on the way, but you'll need extra food to regain your lovely, sleek form, _mi amor_."

 

The fingers in Zevran's hair froze.  "Leave?"

 

_Ah, mierda_.  Zevran pushed himself on his elbow.  "I cannot stay, Leto.  Even now, the Crows fly close on my trail, and thus, they track Hawke as well.  I will not endanger her or her people.  Tomorrow, they head north to her base, and I go east to lead the birds home to Antiva."

 

He watched Fenris intently, his heartbeat quickening.  Then he felt the cold weight of despair sink into his bowels at the slow change in his lover's face:  skin settling as smooth as stone, eyes glassing into an opaque mirror.

 

"I cannot leave Hawke.  She has done much for me.  I . . . owe her my life."

 

"Ah.  I see."  Zevran turned away in a jerk, fumbling for the nearby blanket.  He pulled it over them both before settling on his back beside Fenris.  The sudden silence thickened between them, clogging Zevran's throat.  For once, he had no idea what to say.

 

"Let us discuss it in the morning," said Fenris.  He continued staring at the ceiling of the tent.  "Perhaps we will think clearer with sleep."

 

" _Sì_."  Zevran scoured his mind, seeking one last plea, one more pearl of wisdom to impart.  However, Zevran had been here before, had nearly begged his Warden and still been rejected.  He would not do so again.  Many things have the Crows taken from me, but still I have kept my pride.

 

"Sleep well, Leto."  Zevran closed his eyes and waited long for the breaths next to him to soften.  It took much longer for his fists to loosen, leaving bloody streaks of sorrow on his palms.

 

###

 

When Fenris woke, he was intimately sore.  He was also alone.

 

Wincing as he sat up, he surveyed the tent quickly, noting the absence of Zevran's bedroll and pack.  _Up and ready to travel already_.  Embarrassed that he might be the last one prepared, he dressed and gathered his pack, squinting into the sun as he emerged from the tent.

 

All around him, tents were being dismantled and stored.  The Dalish were also preparing for departure, herding their halla together with soft clicks of the tongue.  Fenris took a step forward and almost stumbled over Varric rushing to his side.

 

"We'll, look who's finally up and about!  Good to see you with us again, Broody."

 

"Mmm."  Fenris scanned the chaos around them.  "Have you seen Zevran?"

 

Varric looked up at him sharply.  "I was going to ask you why he left in such a hurry.  Relationship problems, huh?"

 

"What?"  Fenris stopped swiveling his head and gave Varric his full attention.

 

"Isabela said she saw him leave camp this morning just before the sun rose.  He said nothing to anyone.  She's quite put out at not getting a goodbye."

 

A wave of vertigo sent Fenris stumbling backward.  _He left?_

 

Varric grabbed his sleeve and peered at him with concern.  "Hey, you all right?  You've been out of it for a while.  Why don't you go get something to eat?  I'll get Merrill to help me with your tent."

 

Fenris meandered to the central fire, not caring about food.  He accepted his bowl of gruel and sat on a log far back from the other diners.  He stared down the food numbly, suddenly too nauseous to eat.  Why had Zevran left without discussing it with Fenris first?  Surely, they could have worked something out.

 

"What in the name of Andraste and her blasted pious preachings are you doing here?"

 

The bowl fell from Fenris's fingers as he shot upright, whirling to face Hawke.  He stepped backward into the spilled gruel as Hawke glared into his face.  An angry Hawke was a Hawke to avoid, as Fenris had learned over the years.

 

"Eating?"  He glanced down and grimaced at the sticky mush on his foot.  She followed his gaze.

 

"Doesn't look like you've touched it.  And why are you _here_ instead of with Zevran?"  She stamped her staff on the ground impatiently.

 

"He left."  Fenris eyed the staff warily.  Hawke never attacked her friends with magic . . . unless she felt like teaching them a lesson.

 

"And why aren't you with him?”

 

Fenris blinked slowly.  "Because I owe my allegiance to _you_ , Hawke."

 

Marian stared at him so long, his palms began to itch for his sword.  Hawke was his friend, but she was also a mage.  And mages were dangerous.

 

He relaxed only when she finally sighed, shaking her head.  "Fenris, you owe me _nothing_.  You've given me aid ten times over, and I'm grateful for your friendship.  But—"  Her eyes narrowed.  "You don't belong here."

 

"What?"  Hawke didn't want him with her?

 

Hawke started to reach out toward his arm but stopped abruptly, remembering his reticence to being touched by mages.  "Fenris," her voice softened, "this cause isn't yours.  It never was.  But Zevran . . . he needs you and you need him."

 

Fenris looked off into the trees, hands twitching.  "He left."

 

"Then what are you still doing here?  _Go_."

 

Fenris met her eyes, staring into the deep blue he had once desired.  Could it be so simple, to walk away from years of fellowship?  His mind filled with the color of amber, and he knew it could.

 

"Hawke."  For the first time since she had rejected him so long ago, he reached out and touched her hand.

 

She smiled, radiant in spite of her exhaustion.  "Go to him, Fenris."

 

He took a deep breath and nodded.  Wiping his foot carefully in the grass, he reached down, shouldering his pack.  Hawke wordlessly pointed into the forest to the east, and Fenris walked away without another glance.

 

As he neared the edge of the camp, he saw a lone figure in a feathered coat leaning on his staff watching.  His feet slowed, and he came to a stop in front of Anders, meeting the mage's scrutiny with a level gaze.  This time, Fenris took the time to really _look_ at the mage he had hated for so long.

 

Anders seemed to have recovered fully from his injuries, but the air of weariness hung over him still.  Shadows lurked under his eyes, made more prominent by the lines of worry permanently creasing the corners.  Fenris remembered the mages he had seen chained in the Circle and recalled Anders's many stories of his youth.  _We are different, but both of us bear scars_.

 

Carefully, so Anders would not react violently, he stretched out his hand and placed it on Anders's shoulder.  The expression of surprise was well worth the effort and discomfort.  Anders recovered quickly, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, and finally nodded in acknowledgement.  Fenris stepped back and before Anders could speak, he was gone, melting into the forest.

 

###

 

Zevran knelt gracefully by the stream, dipping his flask into the crisp water.  His skin barely recognized the cold, so adept was he at keeping his mind blank.

 

_Sì_.  _So good at feeling_ nada.  _Who is the fool now, Zevran_?

                                                                    

He sighed, drawing a hand over his face.  Perhaps he had made a mistake in leaving so abruptly?  He had fled as soon as he was certain Fenris was asleep.  Now uncertainty crept in, wavering shadows of disdain haunting every step.

 

_He said he could not leave Hawke.  He would not have come with me._

 

He closed the flask, hanging it once more on his belt.  Leaning over the water on hands and knees, he scrutinized the rippling reflection of his face.

 

_Ah Zevran, you grow older and none the wiser_.  He drew his fingers through the water, clearing the water of sadness before standing up and grabbing his pack.

 

And immediately dropped it again as he reached for his daggers.

 

Spinning smoothly, he faced the trees behind him, eyes searching the shadows for the cause of the snapping twig still echoing through the forest.

 

_Come then, Crows.  I itch for a fight.  Viene_.

 

He moved swiftly toward a nearby tree trunk, using it to cover his back while continuing to scan the brush.

 

Only to stare aghast at the black-clad figure rushing toward him.

 

He barely had time to drop the daggers before slim fingers dug into his braids, pulling his head back.  A desperate tongue demanded entrance, and he complied, opening his mouth and just . . . _reeling_.

 

Years of experience reasserted itself, and he fought back, grabbing the prickly leather armor and yanking Fenris flush against his body.  Moaning into the kiss, he hooked one leg delicately over Fenris's hip, thrusting shamelessly, _joyously_.  Their bodies moved together sinuously, black and silver merging with gold and brown.  Only when they needed breath did they separate, panting and leaning against the tree.

 

Fenris lowered his head, leaning his forehead to Zevran's.

 

"I would see Antiva."

 

Still gasping, Zevran leaned his head back and laughed into the sky with its clouds floating like dreams.  " _Mi amor_ , I shall show you all of it."

 

Fenris allowed a small smile, lightly running a finger over the red thread still looped over Zevran's wrist.

 

"I will take that as a promise."

 

Moments later, the clearing lay empty, save for two sets of footprints by the stream, one booted and one bare.  Tiny shards of sunlight lit motes of dust as the water gurgled happily on its journey east, to the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we are almost at the end! There will be one more chapter, an epilogue. Thanks for sticking with me and taking the time to review. A special thanks goes to Zevgirl, who gives me such valuable feedback. Couldn't do it without her!


	11. Epilogue

_Three years later . . . ._

 

The sun-baked bricks against which Fenris rested were still warm even as the sun dipped toward the horizon, leaving the alley in shade.  Unfortunately, even the shadows provided little respite from the Antivan summer heat, and Fenris lifted the braid at his neck to allow some air to reach his sweat-soaked skin.  He found the lengthy hair a nuisance at times like this, but Zevran's taste prevailed.  The assassin dearly loved running the long, silver strands through his fingers.  Even Zevran's praise was not enough to convince Fenris to grow it any further than his shoulder blades, however.  Some limits could not be pushed.

 

A woman dressed in bright silks of crimson and gold passed the entrance to the alley, offering Fenris a shy smile.  He nodded politely, relieved when she moved on.  In the three years since he had accompanied Zevran back to Antiva, they had achieved an uncomfortable notoriety.  Within the first year, four Crow masters had perished, their cells thrown into chaos.  Already burdened with a rebellious Antivan prince, the Guild withdrew their contracts on Zevran and offered him his own cell in exchange for assistance in quelling the problematic royals.  Zevran not only refused, he made a name for Fenris and himself by accepting difficult contracts and fulfilling them with the utmost discretion.  They maintained a lucrative business as both assassins and mercenaries.

 

Not only were they famous for achieving desired results quickly and efficiently, their relationship fueled the steamy hotbeds of gossip for which AntivaCity was so well known.  Time and again, adventurous men and women had approached the couple in hopes of sharing their bed, only to receive a venomous glare from Fenris and a polite refusal from Zevran.  Even long-time acquaintances of Zevran failed to infiltrate the upscale harbor apartment in which the elves dwelled.

 

If Zevran regretted monogamy, he never gave an indication.  Indeed, as the years passed, their mutual desire only increased.  Even now, thinking of the things he and Zevran had done both within the bedroom and without . . . .  Heat flushed his skin, and Fenris was grateful Zevran was nowhere near to comment on it.  He took a deep breath, carefully erasing certain images from his mind before a certain bulge could give him away.

 

Of course, Zevran chose that moment to appear from the dimness of the alley.  He looked resplendent in his new armor of gold and green, fashioned from the finest Antivan leather and drakeskin.  Against Fenris's objections, Zevran had also purchased him a new outfit of silverite and white steel, burnished a regal midnight black to offset Fenris's white hair.  Boots required quite a bit more persuasion, but even Fenris could not deny their usefulness in cold, rocky terrain.

 

"I apologize for the delay, _mi amor,_ " said Zevran, approaching Fenris with a smile.  Fenris could tell immediately from Zevran's relaxed posture that the meeting had gone well.  Indeed, the extended kiss he received gave him all the proof he needed.

 

"We have another contract?"  So much for diminishing the pressure in his pants . . . .

 

Zevran lifted his ponytail briefly to cool his neck, and Fenris's gaze fell on the red bracelet circling the tanned wrist.  Intricate strips of leather, dyed a bright red, were woven into a tight braid.  Gold clasps fastened the ends together in a perfect fit.  Fenris wore an identical bracelet on the same wrist.  Zevran had presented him with the bracelets on their one-year anniversary in Antiva.  No ceremony accompanied the gift, but none was needed.  Even Fenris, pragmatic to the core, understood the symbol for what it was.

 

On a rare impulse, he grabbed Zevran's wrist, pressing his lips to the smooth skin just above the bracelet.  Zevran's eyes widened, but never one to lose an opportunity, he pulled Fenris into a much longer kiss, uncaring of the stares they received from passers-by.  Indeed, anything was worth getting Fenris into such a state, breaths uneven, and hands trembling with want.  When they finally pulled apart, he admired his lover's swollen lips with satisfaction.  Fenris might be the dominant one, but Zevran loved leaving his mark for all to see.

 

"We have been hired for quite a lucrative job, Leto.  One for which we must leave Antiva, I'm afraid."

 

Fenris adjusted his trousers, ignoring Zevran's lascivious smirk.  "We have not travelled in some time.  A vacation is in order."

 

"Quite."  Zevran led the way out of the alley and into a busy street in the market.  "How about a visit with some friends?"

 

"What is the contract?"

 

"Ah . . . you would never guess."  Zevran turned around, continuing to walk backward so that he could watch Fenris's reaction.  "We have been asked to assassinate Marian Hawke and her renegade lover, Anders."

 

Fenris stopped dead in the street, narrowing his eyes.  "And you said no, of course."

 

Zevran grinned.  "I said yes, of course!"

 

Fenris crossed his arms, regarding his heart and home with a lifted eyebrow.  Zevran's smile softened and he moved closer, tickling Fenris's ear with his whisper.

 

"If we accept the contract, they will not hire another to pursue Hawke.  Not until we have the chance to find and warn her."

 

Fenris nodded and resumed walking, Zevran at his side.  "Then we pack tonight and leave in the morning?"

 

" _S_ _ì_.  Our benefactors have kindly bought our passage on a ship."

 

"Do we even know where Hawke is now?"

 

Zevran smiled over at the other elf, admiring the way the setting sun set the silver hair afire.  Tonight, they would pack . . . after indulging in more pleasant activities.  It might be quite some time before they would again enjoy a proper bed, after all.  Fenris glanced sideways at him, flushing at the hunger in Zevran's eyes.  His discomfort only broadened the assassin's grin.  _So far have we come, my dangerous wolf and I._   He regretted nothing.

 

Looping his arm through Fenris's, Zevran guided him onto the meandering road leading to the harbor and their apartment.

 

"Hawke has been very skilled at keeping her location a secret, but our contractors have discovered the country she currently inhabits."

 

The sun fell below the horizon at last, sending out a last shimmer of purple across the darkening sky.  The dying light glowed in emerald depths as Fenris turned a curious eye to Zevran.  The assassin patted his arm affectionately.

 

" _Mi querido,_ have you ever been to Ferelden?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end. I loved writing this story, and I hoped you enjoyed reading it! Many thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed this. Extra special hugs go to Zevgirl for her encouragement and excellent beta abilities! Thanks everyone!


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